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LECTURES  ON  ENGLISH 
LITERATURE. 

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1 f 


V*  >“«< 


f 


BMW#  COLlEtff  U|#ARY 
iMtSTNUT  MILL,  MASS. 

THE 

AFTERNOON  LECTURES  ON 
ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


DELIVERED  IN  THE  THEATRE  OF  THE  MUSEUM  OF 
INDUSTRY,  S.  STEPHEN’S  GREEN,  DUBLIN, 

IN  MAY  AND  JUNE,  1863. 


LONDON: 

BELL  AND  DALDY,  186,  FLEET  STREET. 
DUBLIN  : HODGES  and  SMITH,  and  MCGEE. 
1863. 


1 


AFTERNOON  LECTURES  ON 


LITERATURE. 


PRESIDENT. 

The  Right  Hon.  Maziere  Brady,  Lord 
Chancellor  of  Ireland. 


Sir  Bernand  Burke,  Ulfter  King-at-Arms. 
The  Hon.  Judge  Berwick. 

The  Solicitor  General  for  Ireland. 
Evory  Kennedy,  Eso.,  M.D. 

John  Edw.  Walsh,  Q JC. 

Sir  Robert  Kane. 

Digby  P.  Starkey,  Eso. 

Maziere  J.  Brady,  Esq. 

Edward  Gibson,  Esq. 

Francis  T.  L.  Dames,  Eso. 

Percy  Fitzgerald,  Esq. 


COMMITTEE. 


R.  H.  Martley, 
R.  Denny  Urlin, 


j*  Hon.  Secretaries. 


A 2 


CONTENTS. 


Preface 


Page 


LECTURE  I. 

On  the  Influence  of  the  National  Character  on  Eng- 
lish Literature.  By  the  Rev.  James  Byrne , M.A, , 
formerly  Fellow  and  Donnellan  Ledturer,  Trin.  Coll. 
Dublin i 


LECTURE  II. 

On  the  Classical  and  Romantic  Schools  of  English 
Literature  as  reprefented  by  Spenfer,  Dryden,  Pope, 

Scott,  and  Wordfworth.  By  William  Rujhton , M.A. , 
Profeffor  of  Hiftory  and  Englifh  Literature,  Queen’s  Coll. 

Cork 41 


LECTURE  III. 

On  Shakespeare.  By  John  K.  Ingram , LL.D.y  Fellow  and 
Profeffor  of  Oratory  and  Englifli  Literature,  Trin.  Coll. 
Dublin 93 


LECTURE  IV. 

On  the  English  Drama.  By  Arthur Houfton,  M.  A .,  Pro- 
feffor  of  Political  Economy,  Trin.  Coll.  Dublin  . . . . 133 


CONTENTS . 


viii 


LECTURE  V. 

On  the  Life  and  Writings  of  the  late  John  Foster, 
the  Essayist.  By  the  Rev.  Edward  Whately , M.  A.  . 1 8 1 


LECTURE  VI. 

On  the  Ballad  and  Lyrical  Poetry  of  Ireland.  By 
Randal  W.  McDonnell  Efq.,  Ex-Schol.  Trin.  Coll.  Dublin.  205 


PREFACE. 

HE  fpecial  value  of  ledtures  has  been 
well  fhown  for  fome  years  paft  in  the 
hiftory  and  fuccefs  of  large  affocia- 
tions  in  our  cities  and  towns,  con- 
lifting  for  the  mo  ft  part  of  young  men  whofe 
daily  purfuits  fhut  them  out  from  the  ordinary 
means  of  mental  improvement.  Experience  has 
fhown  that  books  are  often  laid  afide  by  thofe 
to  whom  oral  teaching  is  very  acceptable  ; and 
while  the  libraries  of  Mechanics’  Inftitutions 
have  been  comparatively  negledled,  the  evening 
lectures  of  u Young  Men’s  Societies”  have  been 
thronged.  No  city  has  witneffed  more  happy 
refults  from  thefe  le&ures  than  Dublin ; and 
they  have  been  eagerly  liftened  to  by  many  for 
whom  they  were  not  exactly  defigned,  while 
large  numbers  have  had  reafon  to  regret  that  the 
hour  and  the  place  have  been  fuch  as  pradtically 
to  exclude  them. 

In  May  1863  it  occurred  to  the  minds  of  a 
few  lovers  of  literature  that  a courfe  of  lec- 


X 


PREFACE . 


tures  might  advantageoufly  be  organized,  which 
fhould  be  acceffible  to  many  who,  for  va- 
rious reafons,  are  debarred  from  the  meetings 
of  the  “ Metropolitan  Hall.”  Some  of  the 
conditions  of  the  projected  courfe  of  le£tures 
were  as  follows  : — They  were  to  be  given  on 
important  fubje£ts  conne£ted  with  Englifh  Litera- 
ture, and  by  the  beft  lecturers  whofe  aid  could 
be  fecured.  It  was  confidered  efTential  that  the 
new  le£tures  fhould  be  delivered  in  fome  fuitable 
building  of  unfedtarian  or  neutral  character,  on 
the  fouth  fide  of  the  city,  and  at  an  hour 
when  ladies  could  conveniently  attend,  and  when 
the  daily  occupations  of  perfons  engaged  in  the 
law  courts  and  the  public  offices  fhould  have 
ceafed.  A Committee  was  formed  for  the  pur- 
pofe  of  carrying  out  thefe  obje£ts  ; and  the  Lord 
Chancellor  of  Ireland  at  once  permitted  his  name 
to  be  prefixed  as  Chairman,  and  alfo  fignified  his 
intention  of  prefiding  as  frequently  as  poffible  at 
the  lectures. 

One  of  the  main  difficulties  in  the  way  was 
furmounted  through  the  kind  exertion  of  Sir 
Robert  Kane,  who  forwarded,  and  cordially  fup- 
ported,  an  application  to  the  central  authorities 
for  the  ufe  of  the  theatre  of  the  Mufeum  of 
Induftry.  A favourable  reply  at  once  placed  at 
the  difpofal  of  the  Committee  the  moft  fuitable 
edifice  in  Dublin  for  their  purpofe — perhaps 


PREFACE. 


xi 


the  only  one  exa£Hy  fulfilling  the  conditions 
already  referred  to.  The  feafon  was  far  ad- 
vanced, but  promifes  of  alliftance  were  fo  readily 
given,  that  the  Committee  felt  juftified  in  ifluing 
a programme  of  a fhort  courfe  of  leisures.  The 
time  did  not  admit  of  any  long  preparation,  or 
of  any  arrangement  as  to  the  fequence  of  fub- 
je&s  ; but,  notwithftanding  thefe  drawbacks, 
the  Committee  believe  that  the  fix  Ie£tures  of 
the  courfe  are  fully  worthy  of  the  reputation  of 
the  lefturers,  and  alfo  believe  that  the  publica- 
tion of  the  ledlures  in  a collected  form  will  not 
only  be  gratifying  as  a memento  to  all  who 
liftened  to  them,  but  will  be  acceptable  to  the 
general  public. 

The  prefent  volume  is  therefore  iffued  in  the 
belief  that  it  will  not  only  be  an  addition  of  fome 
value  to  the  literary  criticifm  of  the  year,  but 
will  alfo  affift  in  gaining  for  the  metropolis  of 
Ireland  a more  diftin£t  pofition  in  literature  than 
{he  has  hitherto  attained.  The  publication  will 
ferve  to  {how  that  the  ftudies  purfued  in  this 
portion  of  the  Empire  are  likely  to  leave  per- 
manent refults,  and  will  afford  an  earneft  of 
other,  and  yet  riper,  fruits  to  be  gathered  in 
time  to  come. 


R.  Denny  Urlin,  1 
R.  H.  Martley,  J 


Hon.  Secs . 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF  NATIONAL 


CHARACTER  ON  ENGLISH 
LITERATURE. 

BY  THE 

REV.  JAMES  BYRNE,  M.A., 

FORMERLY  FELLOW,  AND  DONNELLAN  LECTURER, 
TRINITY  COLLEGE,  DUBLIN. 

r 


B 


THE 

INFLUENCE  OF  NATIONAL  CHARACTER 
ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

HE  laft  and  nobleil  of  the  fciences  is  the 
fcience  of  human  fociety,  which  has  for 
its  objed  to  inveftigate  the  caufes  of  all 
that  human  fociety  is  and  of  all  that  it 
accomplilhes.  There  are  no  inquiries  which  can  rival 
thefe  in  dignity,  for  their  fubjed  is  nothing  lefs  than 
the  growth  of  the  fpirit  of  our  fpecies,  and  the  pro- 
grefs  of  man’s  dominion  over  nature ; none  which  can 
rival  them  in  utility,  for  their  eftablifhed  conclulions 
when  tranflated  into  the  language  of  pradice  would  be 
rules  for  the  advancement  and  amelioration  of  fociety 
in  every  direction.  It  is  in  the  fpirit  of  fuch  a fcience 
that  I would  propofe  to  make  fome  general  obfervations 
on  the  literature  which  has  been  given  to  the  world  in 
the  Englilh  language.  Not  that  I can  hope  within  the 
limits  of  this  ledure,  even  were  it  polfible  in  the  pre- 
fent  hate  of  our  knowledge,  to  eftablifh  with  regard  to 
the  caufes  of  our  literature  anything  which  could  de- 
ferve  the  name  of  fcience.  But  it  may  be  within  the 


4 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


fcope  even  of  a fingle  leXure  to  catch  fuch  a general 
view  of  the  main  features  of  our  national  character  on 
the  one  hand,  and  of  our  literature  on  the  other,  as  by 
their  correfpondence  to  each  other  will  indicate  a con- 
nexion of  caufe  and  effeX,  although  that  connexion 
may  not  be  fcientifically  demonftrated  or  reduced  to 
its  fimple  laws. 

The  people  of  this  United  Kingdom  have  fprung 
from  two  fources  diftinX  in  race  and  in  charaXer.  The 
great  mafs  of  the  Englifh  and  of  the  Lowland  Scotch  are 
of  a Germanic  origin  ; the  majority  of  the  Irifh,  Welfh, 
and  Highland  Scotch  of  a Celtic  origin.  It  is  neceffary, 
therefore,  in  order  to  form  a diftinX  idea  of  the  cha- 
raXer of  the  national  mind,  that  we  fhould  notice  the 
diftinXive  features  of  thefe  two  elements.  We  may, 
however,  leave  out  of  account  the  Welfh  and  the 
Highland  Scotch,  as  thefe  have  never  pofTeffed  fuch  a 
diftinX  national  exiftence,  as  is  neceffary  to  maintain  a 
diftinX  national  charaXer  ftrong  enough  to  make  itfelf 
felt  in  Englifh  literature. 

In  general,  then,  it  may  be  ftated  that  Germanic 
thought  is  flow,  Celtic  thought  quick.  Whence  this 
difference  has  arifen  it  is  not  poffible  to  fay  with  any 
degree  of  affurance.  All  that  can  be  faid  is  that  the 
fouthern  or  tropical  races  of  men  think  quickly,  the 
northern  flowly,  and  that  it  is  probable  that  the  cha- 
raXer of  the  Celt  was  formed  and  fixed  under  fouthern 
influences,  that  of  the  German  in  the  north  of  Europe. 
For  it  would  appear  from  the  earlieft  accounts  which 
we  have  of  the  Celts,  that  they  had  brought  with  them 
from  their  original  Afiatic  abodes  a matured  national 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER . 


5 


life,  of  which  the  German  tribes,  though  fprung  from 
the  fame  original  llock,  were  comparatively  deftitute. 
However  this  may  be,  the  fad  feems  to  be  unqueftion- 
able  that  Germanic  thought  is  flow,  Celtic  thought 
quick.  I have  faid  that  the  Irifh  people  are  princi- 
pally Celts.  The  fame  may  be  faid  of  the  French. 
And  whether  we  compare  French  or  Irifh  thought 
with  Germanic  thought  we  fhall  find  that  this  is  the 
moll  obvious  and  fundamental  diftindion  between  them. 
I may  mention  one  indication  of  this  which  will  alfo 
illuftrate  it.  The  Germanic  nations  accentuate  their 
words  flrongly,  the  French  hardly  at  all.  Now  the 
accentuation  of  the  words  indicates  the  ftrength  of  each 
feparate  thought,  and  this  is  proportional  to  the  atten- 
tion which  is  devoted  to  it.  The  Germanic  nations, 
therefore,  dwell  on  the  feparate  thoughts  which  the 
words  exprefs ; the  French  pafs  lightly  and  quickly 
over  them.  It  may  be  obferved  alfo  that  the  French 
accentuate  or  at  leaf!  dwell  on  the  end  of  a fentence  or 
claufe.  The  true  Irifh  alfo  pafs  quickly  over  the  parts 
of  a fentence  and  dwell  with  an  acutenefs  of  voice  on 
its  conclufion,  though  with  them  this  is  obfcured  by 
the  oppofite  principle  of  intonation,  which  is  proper  to 
the  Englifh  language.  This  peculiarity  arifes  from  the 
quicknefs  of  the  Celt.  He  thinks  the  elements  of  a 
fad  with  quicknefs  and  facility,  fo  that  the  attention 
devoted  to  the  fad  is  lefs  engroffed  by  the  parts,  and  is 
rather  expended,  after  the  parts  have  been  thought, 
in  contemplating  the  whole.  Germanic  thought  is 
expended  on  the  parts,  by  reafon  of  its  flownefs  in 
conceiving  them,  and  it  has  lefs  force  left  to  contem- 


6 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


plate  the  whole.  We  fhall  find  that  this  exadlly  cor- 
refponds  to  one  great  charadteriftic  difference  between 
Germanic  and  Celtic  literature,  namely,  that  the 
former  elaborates  the  parts  more  but  has  lefs  fenfe  of 
general  effedl  than  the  latter.  But  I mention  it  here 
merely  as  an  indication  of  the  flownefs  of  Germanic 
thought  and  the  quicknefs  of  Celtic. 

We  muft,  however,  take  into  account  another  quality 
of  thought,  before  we  can  have  a diftindl  idea  of  the 
character  of  mind  from  which  our  literature  has  fprung. 
Some  minds  prefer  to  occupy  themfelves  with  external 
things,  the  material  objedls  of  fenfe  about  them  ; others 
take  pleafure  in  mufing  on  their  own  ideas.  I will  call 
the  former  outer  minds,  the  latter  inner , and  it  will  be 
found  important  to  obferve  this  diftindlion  in  forming 
an  eflimate  of  national  charadter.  Among  the  Ger- 
manic nations,  the  Anglo-Saxon  had  an  outer  mind, 
the  German  has  an  inner.  Among  the  Celtic  nations, 
the  French  have  an  outer  mind,  the  Irifh  an  inner. 
Perhaps,  but  it  is  only  an  hypothefis,  thefe  national 
differences  arofe  from  the  different  degrees  in  which 
the  refpedtive  nations  were  occupied  with  induftry  or 
with  adventure  when  their  national  charadter  was 
forming.  For  there  was  nothing  in  primitive  induftry 
to  furnifh  matter  for  mufing  thought ; it  fixed  the  mind 
on  external  things.  It  was  adventure  with  all  its 
ftirring  memories  and  unlimited  hopes  which  turned 
thought  inward,  and  made  it  luxury  to  mufe.  It 
would  feem,  I think,  from  the  account  which  Tacitus 
gives  of  the  German  tribes,  that  thofe  which  occupied 
the  lowlands  of  the  north-weft  of  Germany,  and  alfo 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER . 


7 


thofe  in  Sweden,  were  comparatively  fettled,  peaceful, 
and,  judging  by  their  affluence,  induflrious.  Thofe 
who  occupied  the  higher  lands  of  the  South  were  more 
unfettled  and  adventurous ; indeed,  the  vaft  forefls  mull 
have  made  them  hunters  and  kept  up  this  unfettled 
charadler.  The  Anglo-Saxons  came  from  the  more 
fettled  Northern  or  low  German  flock,  and  as  foon  as 
they  entered  England  their  adventures  ceafed.  They 
had  indeed  to  fight  their  way  continually  with  an  ever- 
prefent  enemy  till  they  had  effe&ually  driven  the 
Britons  from  England  into  Wales,  but  this  was  a prac- 
tical neceffity  needing  conflant  adlion,  unlike  the  wild 
and  occafional  adventures  in  unknown  regions,  which 
furnifhed  endlefs  matter  for  romantic  mufings  and  ro- 
mantic tales.  When  once  the  Britons  were  expelled, 
the  Saxons  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  repel  the  encroach- 
ments of  flrangers  and  of  each  other  ; and  during  their 
long  fettlement  of  about  500  years  prior  to  the  Norman 
invafion,  they  feem  to  have  acquired  a particularly  outer 
and  material  chara£ler.  Of  this,  two  indications  may 
be  mentioned,  their  fenfuality  and  their  want  of  the 
fagas  or  tales  which  preferved  the  memory  of  heroic 
adventures.  In  this  they  differed  from  the  Scandina- 
vian, whofe  life  of  bold  adventure  wherever  his  fhip 
would  carry  him  maintained  a fpirit  of  adventure  which 
was  fed  continually  by  mufings  on  the  glories  of  the 
pafl  and  the  chances  of  the  future.  Now  the  Lowland 
Scotch  have  come  principally  from  the  Scandinavian 
flock,  and  they  have  a more  inner  mind  than  the  Anglo- 
Saxon.  From  the  fame  bold  and  hardy  flock,  the 
Scotch  probably  derived  that  rude  boldnefs  and  inde- 


8 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


pendent  flrength,  which  we  hear  fo  plainly  in  their 
national  accent,  and  may  trace  fo  clearly  in  their  literary 
produdions.  Still  more  inner  is  the  modern  German 
mind,  which  has  come  from  the  flock  of  the  Southern 
or  High  German,  who  was  always  adventurous,  and  in 
whom  this  charader  was  kept  up  by  the  boundlefs 
field  for  adventure  opened  to  him  in  the  rich  provinces 
of  the  Roman  Empire.  Nothing  can  be  more  clearly 
marked  than  the  inner  character  of  the  German  mind 
compared  with  the  outer  charader  of  the  Anglo-Saxon. 
The  former  loves  fpeculation,  the  latter  pradice ; the 
former  would  evolve  truth  out  of  the  depths  of  his  own 
confcioufnefs,  the  latter  from  external  obfervation ; the 
former  is  never  content  with  fads  till  he  can  convert 
them  into  principles,  nor  the  latter  with  principles  till 
he  can  convert  them  into  fads.  The  Scotchman  is  in 
thefe  refpeds  intermediate  between  the  German  and 
the  Anglo-Saxon. 

A fimilar  diflindion  within  the  Celtic  family  feparates 
the  Irifh  from  the  French.  The  Irifh  are  defcended 
from  the  oldell  ofF-fhoot  of  the  Indo-European  flock, 
the  firft  wave  of  emigration  which  paffed  over  Europe 
from  that  centre.  If,  as  I have  conjedured,  the  Celtic 
charader  was  formed  in  a Southern  climate,  it  is  vain 
to  look  for  any  trace  of  the  caufes,  which  may  have 
given  to  the  Irifh  mind  an  inner  charader,  to  the 
French  an  outer.  Thofe  caufes  had  aded  before  the 
Gael  firfl,  and  after  him  the  Gaul  had  left  their  Afiatic 
abodes.  But  that  this  diflindion  between  the  Irifh  and 
French  is  real  and  fundamental  will  appear,  I think,  to 
any  one  who  will  analyfe  their  refpedive  charaders. 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER. 


9 


The  Frenchman,  though  quick,  is  moft  definite;  his 
whole  mind  is  concentrated  in  the  glance  which  he 
diredts  to  an  objedt,  and  in  which  he  takes  in  its  ex- 
ternal relations.  Hence  his  clearnefs  of  thought,  his 
quicknefs  and  precifion  of  contrivance.  No  objedt, 
however,  which  does  not  admit  of  this  definite  concep- 
tion, which  requires  that  we  fhould  mufe  over  it  and 
ponder  it  that  we  may  think  of  it  at  all,  is  fuited  to  his 
genius.  If  we  add  to  this  that  the  Frenchman  wants 
fenfibility,  and  is  deficient  in  ltrength  and  depth  of 
principle,  we  fhall  have  before  us  the  image  of  a quick 
outer  character  of  mind. 

The  Irifhman  on  the  other  hand  has  fomewhat  of 
an  inner  mufing  nature.  The  outer  objedt  often  fails 
to  engage  his  fall  attention.  Hence  his  ideas  are  apt  to 
be  indefinite,  becaufe  liable  to  be  mingled  with  another 
train  of  thought  not  diredtly  connedted  with  them. 
Hence  his  careleffnefs,  his  inattention  to  appearance, 
his  difregard  of  confequence,  all  implying  a want  of 
concentrated  attention  to  his  adtions.  If,  however,  his 
mind  be  fully  concentrated,  he  is  capable  of  more  depth 
of  thought  than  the  Frenchman.  He  loves  the  myltery 
on  which  he  can  mufe  ; hence  bis  fondnefs  for  religious 
thought.  His  fenfibilicy  is  ftrong  and  impulfive.  He 
is  capable  of  principles  which  centuries  of  perfecution 
cannot  fhake : witnefs  his  devotion  to  his  religion  and 
his  country.  It  may  be  obferved  that  the  Irifh,  Scotch, 
and  German,  all  have  a national  mufic,  and  that  this  is 
in  accordance  with  their  inner  charadter.  For  mufic 
has  lefs  in  it  that  is  external  to  ourfelves  than  any  of 
the  arts.  Its  produdtions  have  no  exigence  but  in  our 


io 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


fenfations,  and  they  ceafe  with  thefe.  It  is  therefore 
of  an  inner  nature,  and  is  moll  congenial  to  this  cha- 
racter of  national  mind. 

Such,  then,  are  the  main  features  of  the  national 
character.  The  Englifh  indeed  received  from  the 
Norman  conquelt  an  infuflon  of  French  character, 
which  gave  to  the  Englifh  mind  a certain  amount  of 
French  quicknefs  and  outernefs,  and  made  it  more 
bright  and  objective  than  it  was  originally.  Still,  the 
Anglo-Saxon  is  the  main  element  in  it,  and  the  Englifh 
mind  may  ftill  be  defcribed  as  flow  and  outer,  the 
Scotch  flow,  more  inner,  and  more  forcible — the  Irifh 
quick  and  inner. 

Let  us  turn  now  from  the  national  mind  to  its  lite- 
rature. In  doing  fo  we  turn  from  the  ordinary  many 
to  the  gifted  few,  from  the  multitude  to  its  chiefs;  for 
it  is  from  genius  that  literature  fprings.  But  if  fo,  how 
can  we  underfland  its  origin  or  hope  to  difcover  the 
influences  which  affeCl  it  ? Who  can  account  for  genius 
and  explain  its  aClion  ? Who  can  enter  that  fanCluary 
and  divulge  its  myfleries? — that  facred  temple  on 
whole  altar  the  fires  of  invention,  of  fentiment,  of  paf- 
flon  are  ever  burning,  within  whofe  ample  bounds  the 
harmonies  of  nature  are  ever  founding,  where  the  uni- 
verfe  is  mirrored,  yea,  created  anew,  where  truth  and 
beauty  are  ever  honoured  with  rapturous  worfhip. 
None  can  tell  what  pafles  there,  but  he  in  whofe  foul 
it  has  been  ereCted  by  his  God,  and  he  can  give  but  a 
poor  and  partial  account  of  all  he  fees  and  all  he  feels. 
Yet  while  we  acknowledge  the  peculiar  and  individual 
charaCler  of  genius,  and  do  homage  to  its  exaltation 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER . n 

above  all  around  it,  we  lhould  greatly  err  if  we  fup- 
poled  it  to  be  fo  elevated,  as  to  be  unaffected  by  the 
multitude  in  the  midft  of  whom  it  arifes.  On  the 
contrary,  genius  is  commonly  molt  fufceptible  of  focial 
influences,  enters  with  deepefl:  fympathy  into  human 
fellowfhip,  throws  itfelf  with  leaf!  referve  into  the 
human  life  that  is  bufy  around  it;  and,  above  all,  is 
nurtured  by  the  hopes  of  the  applaufe  of  its  fellows  in 
whofe  hearts  it  afpires  to  be  enthroned.  No  doubt 
there  have  been  cafes  in  which  genius  has  by  unfavour- 
able circumilances  been  doomed  to  ifolation,  in  which 
it  has  had  to  rely  with  faith  on  the  confcioufnefs  of  its 
own  powers  in  the  midft  of  depreciation  and  contempt, 
to  look  out  into  the  pail  for  fellowfhip  with  departed 
genius,  and  into  the  future  for  the  glorious  vifion  of 
univerfal  fame.  In  fuch  cafes  the  marks  of  local  and 
national  character  are  in  a correfponding  degree  abfent 
from  its  works,  and  thefe  found  as  if  they  had  iffued 
from  fome  central  fpirit  of  all  humanity.  But  in  general, 
genius  will  not  thrive  unlefs  its  own  tendencies  and 
impulfes  are  in  harmony  with  thofe  of  fociety  around 
it.  It  is  mod  mighty  when  feconded  by  them  ; or 
rather,  I fhould  fay,  when  it  adds  its  own  impulfe  to 
theirs  fo  as  to  fhoot  far  beyond  them,  but  ftill  in  the 
fame  direction.  When  it  thinks  and  feels  in  unifon 
with  its  fellows  it  is  ftrengthened  by  their  fympathy, 
and  elevated  by  their  applaufe ; and  we  may  expeCl  to 
find  that  its  greateft  works  reveal  this  unifon,  and  are 
confequently  marked  with  the  features  of  the  national 
mind.  Let  us  fee  whether  this  is  fo  in  faCt  in  the  rnofl 
confpicuous  monuments  of  our  own  literature.  In 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


I 2 

making  this  comparative  furvey  it  will  be  neceffary  to 
confider  feparately  the  contributions  which  have  been 
made  to  our  literature  by  England,  Scotland,  and  Ire- 
land ; and  with  regard  to  the  firft  it  may  be  convenient 
to  ftate  generally  the  charadteriftic  excellences  and  de- 
fers of  the  literature,  and  then  prove  and  illurtrate 
thele  general  flatements  by  a more  fpecial  appreciation 
of  particular  authors. 

What  then  are  the  general  features  of  Englifh  genius  ? 

In  the  firft  place  I would  fay,  that  Englifh  genius 
is  charadterifed  by  ftrong  and  diftindt  conception  of 
detail.  There  is  no  literature  in  the  world  which 
fhows  fuch  a fenfe  of  charadter  as  that  which  has  iffued 
from  the  Englifh  mind,  none  in  which  all  the  minute 
traits  and  many  fides  of  individual  man  are  photographed 
with  fuch  life  and  truth.  Nor  is  this  diftindtnefs  of 
delineation  confined  to  man.  Nature  too  is  pidtured 
with  fimilar  accuracy  and  vividnefs.  This  diftindt 
conception  of  detail  reveals  a flow  and  careful  habit  of 
mind.  It  correfponds  to  that  diftindt  accentuation  of 
each  word  which  I have  already  noticed  as  diltinguifh- 
ing  Germanic  from  Celtic  fpeech.  It  correfponds  alfo 
to  the  careful  and  truthful  elaboration  of  details  which 
diftingui fhes  the  early  Germanic  fchools  of  painting. 
The  mental  character  revealed  in  all  thefe  cafes  is  the 
fame,  namely,  that  which  does  not  readily  pa fs  from 
one  objedt  to  another,  but  devotes  more  time  to  each, 
and  accomplifhes  its  proceffes  flowly.  Thought  which 
thus  dwells  on  its  objedt  goes  beneath  the  furface,  and 
hence  arifes  much  of  that  vividnefs  with  which  Englifh 
genius  pourtrays  man  and  nature.  There  is  much 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER . 


13 


more  in  it  than  mere  accuracy.  In  every  trait  there  is 
charader  or  fentiment  or  paflion,  and  it  is  the  force  and 
truthfulnefs  of  thefe  fubjacent  fpiritual  elements  in  which 
Englifh  excellence  confifts.  In  its  ftrong  and  diftind 
conception  of  detail  the  Englifh  mind  mingles  feeling 
with  the  objed  on  which  it  dwells  in  thought,  but  as 
it  thus  fpiritualifes  nature,  it  ftill  keeps  clofe  to  nature. 
A flow  and  inner  mind  as  it  dwelt  on  the  objed  would 
by  the  feelings  which  the  objed  called  forth  be  led 
away  from  it  into  mufings  of  its  own  which  would 
impair  the  diftindnefs  of  the  impreflion,  but  the  Englifli 
mind  is  flow  and  outer.  The  objed  is  paramount  in 
its  attention,  the  feeling  is  thus  kept  true  and  made 
definite,  fo  as  to  animate  the  objed  with  poetic  life 
without  either  diftorting  its  form  or  reducing  its  fub- 
fiantial  reality  to  a mere  abftradion. 

Hence  arife  the  peculiar  force  and  richnefs  of  Englifh 
imagination,  for  wrhen  the  fentiment  or  paflion  aflo- 
ciated  with  an  objed  is  ftrong  becaufe  it  has  been  dwelt 
on,  and  definitely  appropriate  becaufe  the  objed  has 
been  paramount  in  the  combination,  an  image  is  fur- 
nifhed  which  can  revive  the  feeling  with  almoft  all  the 
brightnefs  of  its  original  colours. 

Hence  alfo  arifes  another  prominent  feature  of  Eng- 
lifli genius,  its  humour.  The  incongruities  which  are 
ludicrous  hardly  exift  at  all  outfide  human  nature. 
Human  charader  is  the  great  field  which  produces 
them,  and  humour  therefore  naturally  accompanies  a 
ftrong  and  penetrating  fenfe  of  charader. 

It  is  probable  that  thefe  excellences  of  Englifh  genius 
derived  fome  of  their  brightnefs  and  vividnefs  from  the 


H 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


infufion  of  French  influence  at  the  Norman  conqueft. 
Yet  it  would  appear  that  this  influence  was  not  very 
confiderable.  For  ftill  the  charaderiftic  excellences  of 
Englifh  genius  are  quite  different  from  thofe  of  Celtic 
genius,  and  the  ftrong  points  of  the  Celt  are  the  weak 
ones  of  the  Englifhman.  I allude  to  fancy,  wit,  and 
fenfe  of  general  effed.  Fancy  and  wit  conned  thoughts 
with  each  other  by  fuperficial  analogies,  and  they  are 
therefore  natural  to  the  quick  mind  which  pafles  lightly 
over  objeds,  noticing  principally  their  fuperficial  and 
external  qualities.  Senfe  of  general  effed,  too,  needs, 
as  I have  already  obferved,  that  the  parts  fhall  be  thought 
quickly  and  lightly  in  order  that  they  may  be  compre- 
hended in  one  conneded  whole.  In  thefe  powers 
accordingly  Celtic  genius  excels  by  reafon  of  its  quick- 
nefs,  Englifh  genius  fails  by  reafon  of  its  flownefs. 

There  was  indeed  a long  period  during  which  French 
genius  dominated  over  Englifh.  When  the  Reftoration 
brought  with  it  a fceptical  contempt  for  every  form  of 
deep  thought  and  feeling,  and  the  glory  and  fplendour 
of  Louis  XIV.  captivated  the  imagination  of  Europe, 
then  it  was  inevitable  that  French  tafte  fhould  rule  in 
England.  But  it  feems  ftrange  that  the  influence  fhould 
have  lafted  fo  long.  In  Johnfon’s  time  indeed  French 
influence  was  very  much  on  the  wane,  but  ftill  from 
Dryden  to  Cowper  and  Burns,  tafte  was  wonderfully 
uniform,  and  the  charader  of  Englifh  genius  wonder- 
fully different  from  what  it  had  been  before  or  has  been 
fince.  It  was  due  probably  to  the  continuance  of  the 
readion  againft  the  Commonwealth  and  the  Puritans, 
which  continued  to  involve  as  it  did  at  the  Reftoration 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER. 


15 


a diflike  for  deep  thought  and  earned:  feeling  of  every 
kind.  The  Monarchy  and  the  Church  and  the  Uni- 
verfities  were  by  reafon  of  their  portion  of  dired  an- 
tagonifm,  the  firongholds  of  this  fentiment,  and  the 
nation  went  with  thefe  leaders,  for  never  was  there  a 
more  exad  adaptation  than  that  which  exifls  between 
the  Englifh  mind  and  the  Englifh  Church  and  Monarchy. 
During  moll:  of  this  period  wit  was  the  general  name 
for  genius,  elegance  was  the  quality  mofi  prized,  and 
nothing  was  admired  but  what  was  light  in  thought  and 
harmonious  and  corred  in  language.  The  charaderifiic 
qualities  of  Englifh  genius  in  its  pure  development  are 
to  be  fought  outfide  this  period ; and  as  my  time  is 
limited,  I fhall  pafs  over  it  all,  fo  far  as  England  is  con- 
cerned, confining  my  obfervations  to  authors  who  have 
flourifhed  before  or  fince  ; and  amongfi  them  noticing 
only  the  poets  who  have  had  the  greatefi  influence  in 
giving  a charader  to  Englifh  poetry. 

Now  in  pafling  thus  abruptly  from  the  early  to  the 
late  poets,  we  are  confcious  of  a great  change  in  the 
fubjeds  of  poetry,  and  in  the  mode  of  their  treatment ; 
and  as  this  might  fuggeft  the  idea,  that  the  national 
genius  had  in  the  interval,  in  fome  degree,  changed  its 
charader,  it  is  neceflary  to  make  one  or  two  obferva- 
tions on  what  feems  to  be  a natural  order  of  progreflive 
change  in  the  fubjeds  of  poetry. 

Literary  genius,  on  its  firA  awaking  into  life,  finds 
fociety  fo  unfettled  that  every  man  has  to  hold  himfelf 
ready  to  repel  hofiile  violence  by  force,  and  to  defend 
his  rights  with  his  life.  At  fuch  a period,  it  is  adion 
which  moves  genius  with  the  deepefi  interefi. 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


16 

Afterwards  fociety  becomes  more  fettled.  The  civil 
power  quells  this  internal  war,  but  the  fpirit  of  man  is 
not  yet  reclaimed.  He  (till  poflefles  all  his  native 
irregularity  of  difpofition  and  paffion,  and  is  to  be  feen 
in  all  his  natural  variety  of  character.  The  principal 
intereft  which  is  fit  to  engage  the  energies  of  genius  is 
then  found,  not  in  adtion,  but  in  man,  the  adtor. 

At  a fubfequent  period  the  fpirit  of  man  itlelf  is 
reduced  to  comparative  order,  and  as  the  turmoil  of 
paffion  is  quelled,  and  the  need  for  violent  exertion 
ceafes,  fentiment  and  feeling  affume  a finer  character. 
Civil  order  gives  perfqtnal  fecurity  and  enables  man  to 
expatiate  over  the  face  of  nature  with  a mind  free  to 
admit  all  its  gentle  influences,  and  to  mingle  the  varied 
feelings  of  his  own  chequered  exiftence  with  its  changing 
afpedts.  Then  the  mild  refledlion  which  it  gives  of  his 
joys  and  forrows  has  power  to  awaken  the  infpirations 
of  genius,  and  nature,  the  fcene  of  man’s  life,  enters  as 
a main  element  into  his  literary  creations.  The  fenfe 
of  human  charadter  and  paffion  in  this  period  becomes 
weaker,  and  thefe  need  the  account  of  ftirring  incident 
to  bring  them  out.  Such  incident  of  itfelf  fuggests  the 
charadter  to  which  it  may  be  due,  or  the  feelings  which 
it  mull  infpire,  and  thus  helps  the  delineation  of  them. 
It  is  natural,  then,  that  Englifh  literature  fhould  follow 
this  order,  and  fucceffively  idealize  adtion,  man,  and 
nature,  without  at  all  indicating  therein  any  change  in 
the  charadler  of  the  national  genius.  Whether  that 
charadter  has  continued  permanent  may  appear  when 
we  have  endeavoured  briefly  to  eftimate  the  charac- 
teriflic  genius  of  fome  of  the  principal  Englifh  poets  of 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER . 


17 


the  periods  moft  pure  from  foreign  influence.  Jt  is  not 
to  be  expeCted  that  each  one  fhould  poflefs  every  Englifh 
excellence  ; for  it  is  feldom  granted  to  a Angle  mind  to 
hold  dominion  at  once  over  all  the  faculties  of  the  foul. 
The  queftion  to  be  alked  is,  whether  the  excellences 
and  defeats  of  each  author,  in  his  peculiar  province, 
exhibit  the  features  of  the  national  mind. 

This  is  moft  diftinCtly  the  cafe  with  Chaucer,  the 
great  father  of  Englifti  fong.  Character  and  humour 
are  his  perfections.  I fay  perfections,  for  there  is  furely 
nothing  in  literature  more  abfolutely  free  from  defeCt 
than  his  fketches  of  the  pilgrims  to  Canterbury, 
nothing  which  feems  more  incapable  of  increafe  than 
the  humour  of  the  characters,  and  of  moft  of  their  tales. 
Indeed,  the  character  and  humour  that  is  in  Chaucer  is 
of  fuch  a full  and  complete  kind  that  you  feel  as  if  you 
could  never  take  it  all  in,  and  appreciate  all  its  excel- 
lence. This  arifes  from  the  multitude  of  charaCteriftic 
traits,  each  one  of  which  is  neceftary  to  the  complete 
idea  of  the  character,  and  from  the  multitude  of  hu- 
morous incongruities  which  in  the  humorous  charac- 
ters are  involved  between  each  of  these  traits  and  the 
reft.  The  Englifti  particularity  of  thought  and  Adelity 
to  nature  appears  ftrikingly  in  the  idealization  that 
there  is  in  Chaucer’s  characters.  Each  one  is  the  embo- 
diment of  an  ideal,  but  of  a very  particular  ideal.  He 
does  not  draw  the  moft  perfeCt  fpecimen  of  a foldier, 
but  of  a knight,  a fquire,  and  a yeoman  ; not  of  an 
eccleftaftic,  but  of  a monk,  a friar,  and  a parfon ; and 
in  drawing  thefe,  though  he  imagines  each  as  perfeCt, 
he  never  goes  outfide  the  fpecial  charaCteriftics  which 
c 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


are  peculiar  to  each  in  order  to  give  them  a perfection 
which  might  as  well  belong  to  another.  There  is  here 
not  only  the  flow  mind  which  dwells  with  attention  on 
its  object  fo  as  to  take  a deep  impreffton,  but  the  outer 
mind  which  keeps  true  to  the  object,  and  whofe 
thoughts  are  ftridly  controlled  by  it.  Alas ! many  of 
Chaucer’s  tales  are  fo  immodeft  that  they  cannot  be 
read  for  very  fhame.  But  they  are  not  all  fo,  and  in 
fome  of  them,  as  well  as  in  others  of  his  poems,  there 
are  excellences  of  a more  poetical  nature  than  character 
and  humour.  There  is  not,  indeed,  much  ftrength  of 
genuine  palfion.  This  was  not  Chaucer’s  province. 
His  works  are  not  of  that  kind  that  the  abfence  of  it 
is  a defect.  The  paflion  of  the  “Knight’s  Tale”  is, 
indeed,  conventional,  but  it  was  quite  appropriate,  and 
no  doubt  intended,  that  the  conventional  fentiments  of 
chivalry  fhould  be  the  governing  element  of  the  tale. 

But,  though  there  may  not  be  much  paffion,  there  is 
true  and  touching  tendernefs,  as  in  Grifelde’s  parting 
with  her  children  and  her  meeting  with  them  again. 
There  is  fine  imagination,  too,  as  in  the  defcriptions  of 
the  temples  of  Mars,  Venus,  and  Diana,  in  the  “Knight’s 
Tale,”  and  the  facred  rites  which  are  performed  in 
them.  And,  though  much  is  borrowed,  yet  the  poet’s 
own  imagination  is  ftill  feen  adive  throughout. 

Chaucer  exhibits,  in  a remarkable  degree,  one  power 
which  peculiarly  correfponds  to  the  charader  of  Eng- 
lifh  genius,  the  power  of  allegory.  At  firft  fight  this 
might  feem  to  be  identical  with  fancy,  a faculty  which 
I have  afcribed  rather  to  the  Celtic  mind  than  to  the 
Englifh.  But  fancy,  at  leafl  in  the  fenfe  in  which  I 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER . 


l9 

ufe  the  term,  confifts  in  aflociating  thoughts  together 
through  the  medium  of  a fuperficial  refemblance  which 
does  not  enter  deeply  into  the  eflential  nature  of  either. 
Such  is  the  fancy  which  fparkles  throughout  the  poetry 
of  Moore.  Take,  for  example,  the  following,  from 
his  defcription  of  the  early  love  of  Zelica  and  Azim,  in 
the  “Veiled  Prophet — 

“ There,  on  the  banks  of  that  bright  river  born, 

The  flowers  that  hung  above  the  wave  at  morn, 

Blefs’d  not  the  waters  as  they  murmur’d  by 
With  holier  fcent  and  luftre  than  the  flgh 
And  virgin-glance  of  firfl:  aft'edlion  caft 
Upon  their  youth’s  fmooth  current  as  it  pafs’d.” 

The  flowers  looking  into  the  ftream  in  all  their 
brightnefs,  and  exhaling  over  it  their  frefli  morning 
fragrance,  are  a beautiful  image  of  the  virgin  glance  and 
flgh  of  firfl:  affedtion,  over  the  fmooth  current  of  youth. 
But  they  do  not  reprefent  youthful  love  itfelf,  they  do 
not  pi&ure  to  us  what  it  is,  the  refemblance  reaches 
not  beyond  the  furface.  Now  this,  which  fancy  does 
not,  it  is  the  very  purpofe  of  allegory  to  do.  It  takes 
a mental  principle,  or  an  ideal  exifience,  and  gives  to 
it  a bodily  fhape  and  fubftance,  which  fhall  reprefent 
its  eflential  nature.  For  this  it  is  neceflary  to  dwell  in 
thought  on  the  ideal  objedl  in  order  to  form  a full  and 
ftrong  conception  of  it ; and  this  needs  a flow  and 
careful  habit  of  mind.  And  as  ideal  objedls  are  apt  to 
be  fliadowy  and  indiftind,  there  is  further  needed  a 
mind  which  will  be  faithful  to  its  objedl,  and  not 
mingle  with  it  any  mufings  or  abftradlions  of  its  own, 
one  which  by  its  outer  tendency  can  tranfport  the 


20 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


ideal  into  the  material.  Allegory,  then,  of  this  full 
and  minute  kind,  belongs  properly  to  the  flow  outer 
mind,  and  Chaucer’s  fuccefs  in  this  province  in  his 
“ Vifion  of  the  Temple  of  Fame  ” is  in  harmony  with 
the  chara&er  of  Englifh  thought. 

Indeed,  the  fir  11  confpicuous  effort  of  Englifh  genius 
which  preceded  the  works  of  Chaucer,  the  “ Vifion  of 
Piers  Ploughman,”  was  an  allegory  too,  chara&erized 
apparently  by  Englifh  humour  and  fhrewdnefs  of  ob- 
fervation.  And  the  great  poet  Spenfer  who  fucceeded 
him  after  a long  interval  has  exhibited  in  the  fame  form 
all  the  highefl  gifts  of  Englifh  genius. 

How  various  and  interefling  the  incidents,  how  pic- 
turefque  and  beautiful  the  forms  in  which  Spenfer,  in 
his  “ Fairy  Queen,”  embodies  the  various  moral  prin- 
ciples, and  the  viciffitudes  of  their  hiftory.  What 
purity  and  elevation  of  moral  feeling,  what  profound 
wifdom  and  deep  view  of  human  life  is  in  the  fubftance 
and  meaning  of  his  Allegory.  That  inner  fubftance  is 
the  element  in  his  immortal  poem  which  is  mod  pecu- 
liarly his  own.  The  external  form  in  which  it  is  em- 
bodied is  due  in  a confiderable  degree  to  that  Romance 
literature,  which,  created  by  the  Gallic  genius  of  the 
Trouveres  for  the  entertainment  of  their  Germanic 
mailers,  gave  a French  brightnefs  of  obje&ivity  to  the 
deep  motives  and  pleafures  of  Germanic  adventure,  and 
fo  was  qualified  to  fire  the  fouthern  genius  of  Taffo  and 
Ariofto,  as  well  as  to  flrike  deep  into  the  Englifh  foul 
of  Spenfer.  We  are  to  look  for  the  individual  cha- 
racter of  his  genius,  not  fo  much  to  this  romantic  ele- 
ment which  was  the  common  property  of  Europe,  as 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER . 


21 


to  the  peculiar  treatment  which  it  received  in  his  hands, 
and  to  all  that  fpiritual  fiory  which  is  entirely  his  own. 
Judging  him  in  this  way,  we  may  obferve  that  though 
Spenfer  is  fo  admirably  fuccefsful  in  the  image  or  outer 
part  of  the  allegory,  yet  his  thoughts  are  more  occupied 
throughout  with  the  inner  meaning.  This  indicates 
fuch  a flownefs  of  mind  as  gives  depth,  becaufe  it  loves 
to  dwell  on  an  objeCt  till  it  takes  it  all  in,  with  all  its 
meaning.  The  quick  mind  keeps  nearer  to  the  furface  ; 
and,  accordingly,  if  we  compare  the  “ Fairy  Queen,” 
or  that  other  eminently  Englifh  allegory,  the  “ Pilgrim’s 
Progrefs,”  with  Swift’s  admirable  allegory,  the  “Tale 
of  a Tub,”  we  fhall  find  this  charaCteriltic  difference 
illuftrated.  Swift  was  by  birth  and  early  education  an 
Irifhman,  and  he  wrote  during  the  period  when  French 
influence  was  predominant.  We  may  expeCt  in  him 
the  fuperficial  characters  of  the  quick  mind,  and  accord- 
ingly it  may,  I think,  be  faid  with  truth  that  Swift 
thinks  rather  more  of  the  image  than  of  the  meaning; 
the  humour  lies  rather  in  Peter,  Martin,  and  John; 
Spenfer  and  Bunyan  fix  their  intereil  rather  in  Truth, 
Temperance,  Faith,  Hope. 

This,  indeed,  is  eflentially  connected  with  that  which 
moft  ftrikes  one  in  Spenfer,  his  wonderful  and  admir- 
able elaboration  of  details.  Every  feature  in  his  cha- 
racters, every  movement  in  their  adventures  is  full  of 
deep  fpiritual  meaning.  Now  this  is  not  at  all  a 
neceflary  or  univerfal  quality  in  allegory.  It  is  the 
treatment  of  allegory  which  we  fliould  expeCt  from  the 
flow  and  outer  Englifh  mind,  but  we  fhould  not  ex- 
peCt it  nor  do  we  find  it  in  Swift’s  allegory.  His 


22 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


types  are  not  of  this  minute  kind.  They  are  all  prin- 
cipal incidents  in  his  ftory,  and  it  may  be  added  that 
that  ftory  moves  rapidly,  and  the  characters  are  fketched 
with  a free  hand  in  a few  touches.  But  in  Spenfer 
every  detail  is  fully  brought  out.  His  is  a Germanic 
picture,  but  how  beautiful  are  the  colours  with  which 
it  glows ! What  richnefs  of  that  poetic  fentiment  with 
which  Englifh  genius  by  reafon  of  its  depth  and  truth 
can  animate  nature  ! What  beauty  of  language,  what 
admirable  propriety  of  epithet,  what  harmony  of  verfe  1 
True,  the  very  fulnefs  of  the  fpiritual  meaning,  and  a 
certain  deficiency  of  human  intereft  arifing  from  the 
predominance  of  the  inner  fubflance  of  the  allegory 
over  its  outer  form,  makes  it  perhaps  heavy  to  read 
through  and  regard  as  a whole.  True  it  is  alfo  that 
as  I have  obferved  of  Englifh  genius  in  general,  there  is 
perhaps  in  Spenfer’s  genius  a deficient  fenfe  of  general 
effeCE  Indeed  there  is  properly  fpeaking  no  totality 
either  in  the  <c  Fairy  Queen,”  or  in  Chaucer’s  “ Can- 
terbury Tales,”  for  the  original  plan  of  the  whole  was 
in  both  cafes  an  unimportant  element  in  the  work  and 
was  never  carried  out.  Yet  with  all  this,  Spenfer  is 
one  of  the  brightefl  glories  of  modern  literature ; and 
England  may  well  be  proud  of  him,  for  his  genius  was 
emphatically  Englifh.  And  after  that  dark  period 
which  leparated  him  from  Chaucer,  after  all  the  def- 
lation of  the  wars  of  the  Rofes,  and  all  the  deep  trials 
of  the  Reformation,  he  rofe  on  England,  as  if,  to  ufe 
an  image  of  his  own, 

“ At  laft,  the  golden  orientall  gate 
Of  greateft  heaven  gan  to  open  rayre, 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER . 


23 


And  Phcebus,  frefli  as  brydegrome  to  his  mate 
Came  dauncing  forth,  fhaking  his  deawie  hayre, 

And  hurld  his  glittering  beams  through  gloomy  ayre.” 

That  baptifm  of  blood  and  fire  through  which  Eng- 
land palled  at  the  Reformation  raifed  both  Proteflant 
and  Catholic  to  a newnefs  of  life.  That  mighty  work- 
ing of  heart  and  mind  with  which  the  nation  then 
heaved  throughout,  went  through  every  man  and 
woman,  and  tried  what  manner  of  fpirits  they  were  of. 
What  a preparation  was  this  for  that  period  of  our 
literature  in  which  man,  the  great  atlor  of  the  drama 
oflife,  was  about  to  appear  on  the  flage.  It  was  to  be 
expedled  that  the  drama  fhould  then  Hart  into  life,  and 
that  human  character  fhould  fpeak  from  the  flage  with 
a depth  and  life  never  known  before  ; but  who  could 
have  imagined  Shakefpeare  ? It  is  needlefs  for  me  to 
dwell  on  the  charadleriflics  of  his  genius,  as  they  have 
been  taken  for  the  fubjedl  of  one  of  thefe  ledlures  by  one 
much  more  competent  to  do  them  juftice.  I will  con- 
tent myfelf  with  obferving,  that  if  fenfe  of  charafler  and 
richnefs  of  humour,  if  depth  of  feeling  and  fervour  of 
imagination,  if  minutenefs  of  detail  and  living  fidelity  to 
nature  be  Englifh  excellences,  then  the  genius  of  Shake- 
fpeare was  in  flridl  conformity  to  Englifh  thought.  If 
deficiency  of  true  wit,  and  a certain  inattention  to  that 
general  efFe£l  which  is  produced  by  a regular  and  fkilful 
compofition  of  the  whole,  be  Englifh  defe£ls,  then 
Shakefpeare  is  the  very  type  of  Englifh  genius.  Such 
a type,  however,  as  thofe  ideas  which  Plato  imagined 
in  the  Divine  mind  to  be  the  divine  models  of  this 
lower  world. 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


24 

In  Milton,  on  the  contrary,  there  is  a ftriking  abfence 
of  Englifh  charaderillics.  There  is  no  elaboration  of 
details,  no  deficiency  of  general  effed.  His  charaders 
indeed  are  admirably  drawn,  and  his  defcriptions  fhine 
with  the  light  of  genius,  but  we  are  Itruck  rather  with 
the  poetry  and  truthfulnefs  of  the  whole  than  with  the 
life  and  fidelity  of  the  particular  touches.  He  had  in 
common  with  all  the  born  kings  of  human  thought, 
the  divine  gifts  by  which  they  hold  their  univerfal  and 
eternal  dominion  over  the  foul  of  man,  but  in  him 
thofe  gifts  were  fpecialized  not  as  national  but  as  indi- 
vidual. There  was  always  fomething  in  Milton,  or  in 
his  circumflances,  which  feparatea  him  from  his  fellows. 
Rufticated  and  flogged  at  college,  in  after  years  deferted 
by  his  wife,  later  Hill, 

“ Fallen  on  evil  days  and  evil  tongues, 

And  with  darknefs  and  with  danger  compafs'd  round,*’ 

his  genius  grew  alone,  and  it  was  natural  that,  affeded 
by  prefent  influences  only  of  a hoflile  kind,  it  fhould 
aflume  that  fevere  flrength  and  awful  fublimity  which 
diftinguifhed  him,  and  fhould  choofe  a fubjed  which 
would  lead  his  fpirit  forth  in  folitary  grandeur  to  regions 
where  human  footfteps  never  trod,  to  fee  and  tell 
“ Of  things  invifible  to  mortal  fight.” 

And  now  pafling,  as  I faid  I fhould  do,  over  all  the 
middle  period  of  Englifh  literature,  I muft  touch  very 
briefly  the  charader  of  Englifh  poetry  of  the  prefent 
time,  which  may  be  faid  to  owe  its  origin  to  Wordf- 
worth’s  vehement  protefl:  againfl  the  conventionalities 
into  which  the  poetry  of  the  preceding  period  had 
funk  in  its  decay.  The  nature  of  that  protefl  is  revealed 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER . 


25 


in  the  very  exceiles  to  which  it  fometimes  went.  It 
was  a recurrence  from  the  cuftomary  generalities  of 
literature,  to  the  realities  around  us  in  their  utmoft  par- 
ticularity. It  hardly  contemplated  an  idealization  of 
nature,  but  commanded  us  to  liilen  to  her  very  voice 
and  we  fhould  hear  fweeteft  mufic,  to  behold  her  very 
face  and  we  fhould  be  blelfed  with  moll  glorious  vilions. 
But  for  this  it  was  neceffary  to  give  her  more  than  a 
paffing  notice.  Man  cannot  fee  the  robe  of  grandeur 
and  beauty  with  which  he  has  himfelf  inverted  nature, 
by  the  unconfcious  mingling  of  all  paft  feeling  with 
the  fcenes  of  his  various  life;  he  cannot  hear  the  echo 
which  hie  gives  of  the  voices  of  forgotten  years  whif- 
pering  to  him  all  of  bell,  and  pureft,  and  tendered  that 
has  ever  palled  within  him  ; unlefs  he  gives  her  a heedful 
attention,  and,  without  abftradting  or  generalizing,  re- 
ceives faithfully  the  very  imprefs  of  herfelf  upon  his 
foul.  But  this  heedful  faithful  attention  is  but  another 
exprelfion  for  thole  characters  of  Englilh  thought  which 
I have  fo  often  mentioned.  Accordingly  there  is  no 
nation  which  worlhips  nature  with  fuch  devotion  as  the 
Englilh.  What  elfe  brings  them  on  their  annual  pil- 
grimages to  Switzerland,  as  zealoully  performed  as 
thofe  of  the  Mahommedan  to  Mec:a,  but  to  pay  their 
homage  to  Nature,  where  in  Alpine  valleys  and  fnowy 
heights  all  the  faithful  recognize  her  fhrine.  But  if 
this  love  of  nature  be  a fpecially  Englilh  fentiment  then 
the  poetry  of  nature  mull  be  acknowledged  to  be  effen- 
tially  Englilh  in  its  character.  It  was  not  confined  to 
Wordfworth.  Byron  too  went  forth  and  pondered  in 
this  Englilh  fafhion  on  whatever  of  grandell  Europe 
had  to  fhow,  and  made  it  all  found  with  his  own  paf- 


2 6 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


fion.  But  Wordfvvorth  was  the  moil  faithful  to  nature. 
He  was  her  very  infpired  prophet,  and  his  infpiration 
was  heightened  by  two  caufes.  Firft,  the  time  had 
long  come  in  that  order  of  poetic  fubjedls  which  I have 
mentioned,  for  the  poetry  of  nature,  and  the  fentiment 
was  moving  in  the  heart  of  man,  and  was  ready  to 
burd  into  fong,  when  Wordfworth  firft  gave  it  didindl 
utterance.  Secondly,  the  difappointment  and  fcepti- 
cifm  into  which  he  was  thrown  by  the  iffue  of  the 
French  revolution  drove  him  to  nature  for  the  renewal 
of  his  faith  and  the  revival  of  his  hope.  This  entire 
devotion  caufed  him  to  have  little  fenfe  of  human 
chara&er,  and  indeed  condituted  fo  entirely  the  pur- 
pofe  of  his  poetry  that  there  was  not  much  room  for 
any  charadteridic  Englifh  excellence  or  defedt  beyond 
what  it  implied.  But  it  gave  his  genius  fuch  power 
that  we  Hill  feel  the  effedl  of  its  impulfe. 

Tennyfon  has  the  fame  earned  faithful  devotion  to 
nature.  But  this  is  not  his  only  Englifh  charadleridic. 
Indeed,  I know  not  any  more  driking  indication  of  the 
permanence  of  the  national  charadter  of  England  than 
the  fimilarity  of  Tennyfon’s  genius  to  Spenfer’s.  We 
can  hardly  venture  to  compare  Tennyfon  with  fuch  a 
great  mader  of  fong  as  Spenfer.  Perhaps,  had  he  been 
born  in  a more  poetical  age,  his  genius  might  have 
affumed  dimenfions  more  comparable  to  Spenfer’s  ; but, 
as  it  is,  we  can  fee  in  Tennyfon  the  fame  minute  truth- 
fulnefs  of  detail,  and  even  love  of  allegory,  fimilar 
beauty  and  fweetnefs  of  poetic  fentiment  breathing 
through  his  ideas  a breath  of  life,  fimilar  beauty  of 
language,  and  exquifite  choice  of  words.  All  this  be- 
fpeaks  that  Englifh  fenfibility  and  elaboration  of  details 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER. 


27 


which  we  fee  under  the  fame  forms  in  Spenfer.  In- 
deed, with  regard  to  language,  it  may  be  obferved,  that 
as  there  is  a certain  quaintnefs  in  Tennyfon’s  ltyle,  fo 
Spenfer’s  language  was  rather  antique  even  in  his  own 
time.  Perhaps  both  were  led  to  this  by  their  delicate, 
faftidious  tafle  in  words.  When  language  is  a little 
antique,  or  a little  unufual  in  its  conftru&ion,  it  is  lefs 
foiled  by  the  affociations  of  vulgar  ufe,  the  ideas  are 
conveyed,  perhaps,  with  greater  purity  from  the  poet’s 
mind,  perhaps  in  a form  more  fuited  to  their  dignity, 
when  that  form  is  fomewhat  peculiar,  or  the  language 
fomewhat  confecrated  by  age.  Tennyfon  is  not  a 
poet  of  wit  or  fancy.  So  far  from  moving  on  the  fur- 
face,  his  meaning  fometimes  goes  fo  deep  that  it  is 
impofiible  to  difcover  it.  It  muft  be  confefled  alfo  that 
the  general  effedt  of  his  poems  is  fometimes  not  good. 
What  an  odd  ftory,  for  example,  the  ftory  of  “ The 
Princefs  ” is,  notwithftanding  the  unrivalled  beauty  of 
many  parts  of  the  poem,  than  which  there  is  nothing 
more  exquifite  in  Englifh  poetry.  But  this  only  fixes 
more  clearly  on  his  genius  the  charadter  of  Englifh 
thought. 

Having  thus  traced  that  charadter  down  the  main 
current  of  our  literature  which  has  come  from  Eng- 
land, let  us  confider,  in  the  fame  point  of  view,  the 
molt  prominent  features  of  the  contributions  made  to 
our  literature  by  Scotland  and  Ireland. 

Scotch  thought  is  fomewhat  more  forcible  and  more 
inner  than  Englifh  thought.  The  difference  between 
them,  however,  is  not  fo  great  but  that  Scotch  thought 
might  harmonize  with,  and  nurture  by  its  lympathy, 
a genius  whofe  individual  tendencies  were  ftridtly  Eng- 


28 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


lifh  in  their  nature.  This,  at  leaft,  was  poflible  before 
Scotch  genius  had  fully  developed  itfelf  and  eftablifhed 
its  own  fchool  of  thought  and  feeling.  At  fuch  a 
period,  Englifh  genius,  already  fully  developed  in  its 
chara&eriftic  form,  would  aft  powerfully  on  the  literary 
tafte  and  tendencies  of  Scotland,  interfering  with  the 
free  growth  of  whatever  in  thefe  was  peculiar  to  them- 
felves ; and  it  was  therefore  to  have  been  expefted  that 
the  firft  great  Scotch  contributor  to  Englifh  literature 
would  dilplay  a genius  not  ftrongly  marked  with  fpe- 
cially  Scottifh  charafteriftics.  This  appears  to  me  to 
be  the  cafe  with  Thomfon,  whofe  genius  drew  its  in- 
fpiration  from  that  faithful  love  of  nature  which  I have 
defcribed  as  harmonizing  completely  with  Englifh 
thought.  What  Thomfon  owed  to  his  Scotch  birth 
wTas  his  freedom  from  the  repreffing  influence  of  that 
averfion  to  flow  brooding  thought  which  then  pre- 
vailed in  England,  but  from  which  Scotland  was  free 
by  reafon  of  her  deep  and  fpiritual  religion.  The  pre- 
valent French  tafte  in  England  was  due  in  a great  degree 
to  the  reaftion  in  England  againft  that  Puritanifm  to 
which  Englifh  thought  was  unfuited  ; but  there  was  no 
fuch  reaftion  in  Scotland.  On  the  contrary,  the  Scotch 
nation  had  ftamped  the  features  of  its  ftrong  and  inner 
genius  on  its  deep  and  fpiritual  religion,  and  in  it  had 
fo  fixed  them  that  they  could  never  be  altogether  loft. 
While,  therefore,  in  London,  wit  and  elegance  were 
playing  on  the  furface  of  things,  moft  pleafed  with 
watching  their  own  feats  and  liftening  to  their  own 
muftc,  in  Edinburgh  a deeper  and  flower  ftyle  of 
thought  prevailed.  There  Thomfon  was  drinking  in 
Nature’s  beauty,  and  her  own  fweet  voice  was  founding 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER. 


29 


through  his  thoughtful  foul,  foon  to  break  forth  in  that 
poetry  of  nature  which,  in  love  and  fervour,  was 
unequalled  in  England  till  near  a century  later. 

Soon  after  Thomfon’s  time,  Scotch  genius  affumed 
more  diftin&ly  its  own  proper  forms.  A number  of 
writers  appeared  who  countenanced  and  encouraged 
each  other’s  Scottifh  tendencies,  and  eftablifhed  an  in- 
dependent development  of  genius  in  harmony  with  the 
national  charadter  of  thought.  A band  of  philofophers 
arofe  who  will  ever  be  venerated  amongft  the  pro- 
founded  teachers  of  mankind  in  mental  and  focial 
fcience.  The  depth  and  ftrength  of  their  thoughts 
and  reafonings  marked  out  Scotland  as  a land  of 
thoughtful  forcible  minds,  while  the  direction  which 
their  inveftigations  took  pointed  to  the  inner  world  of 
mind  and  morals  as  their  appropriate  fphere.  This 
fame  flownefs  of  thought  favoured  refearch,  and  this 
innernefs  of  thought  gave  ftrength  to  that  tenacity  of 
hiftoric  memories  from  which  I have  conjedlured  that 
it  originally  fprang.  Thus  hiftory  was  congenial  to 
Scottifh  genius  ; and  it  is  charadleriftic  of  Scotch 
thought  that  hiftory  fhould  have  flourifhed  along  with 
philofophy  in  that  conftellation  of  genius  in  which 
Robertfon,  Hume,  Smith,  and  Reid,  fhed  on  their 
country  unfading  glory. 

This  tenacity  of  hiftoric  memories  may  be  obferved 
in  another  form  in  Scott,  whofe  genius  was  nurtured 
by  them.  Scott  had  no  remarkable  power  of  delinea- 
ting character,  though  he  could  draw  forcibly  a Angle 
paflion  or  peculiarity.  His  eye  for  nature  was  hardly 
fuch  as  to  fee  her  in  the  glory  and  beauty  of  poetic 


30 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


vilion,  but  all  his  faculties  were  quickened  and  rendered 
more  poetical  by  that  fpirit  of  the  pall:  which  of  itfelf 
raifed  his  thoughts  from  the  aftual  to  the  ideal.  That 
this  power  of  reviving  the  fpirit  of  the  pall  was  the 
predominant  element  of  his  genius  may  not  only  be 
feen  in  his  works,  but  inferred  by  either  tracing  the 
growth  of  that  genius  in  his  own  hillory,  or  obferving 
the  efledls  which  it  left  behind  it.  From  Scott’s  earlielt 
years  his  genius  fed  on  tales  of  the  pall  and  Scotch 
tradition,  and  grew  into  conformity  with  thefe;  and  the 
fum- total  of  the  effedls  of  his  works  was  to  generate  a 
mediaeval,  high-church,  monarchical  fpirit,  and  to  fur- 
round  Scotland  with  fuch  a halo  of  romance  that  it 
became  all  claffic  ground.  Thus,  to  appropriate  and 
renew  the  fpirit  of  the  pall  belongs  only  to  a genius 
which  has  the  depth  and  thoroughnefs  that  flownefs 
gives,  and  that  power  of  feizing  llrongly  a mental  fadl 
or  habit  which  implies  llrength  and  innernefs. 

But  of  all  Scotland’s  fons  Burns  was  the  moll  gifted 
with  the  facred  fire  of  poetry ; and  as  in  general  the 
highell  development  of  the  fpirit  of  man  can  be  attained 
only  when  its  native  tendencies  are  in  harmony  with 
external  influences,  lb  was  Burns  the  very  imperfonation 
of  the  mind  of  his  countrymen,  endowed,  however, 
with  a fpirit  whofe  vital  adlion  was  poetic  rapture,  and 
which  was  tuned  by  the  hand  of  Nature  herlelf  to  join 
in  fymphony  with  all  her  voices.  “ l Ihould  have 
taken  him,”  faid  Scott,  “had  I not  known  what  he 
was,  for  a very  fagacious  country  farmer  of  the  old 
Scotch  fchool.  There  was  a ftrong  expreflion  of  fenfe 
and  lhrewdnefs  in  all  his  lineaments.  The  eye  alone. 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER . 


3 1 


I think,  indicated  the  poetical  charader  and  tempera- 
ment. It  was  large  and  of  a dark  caft,  which  glowed 
(I  fay  literally  glowed)  when  he  fpoke  with  feeling  or 
intereft.  I never  faw  fuch  another  eye  in  a human 
head,  though  I have  feen  the  mod  diftinguifhed  men  of 
my  time.”  That  exprelfion  of  fenfe  and  fhrewdnefs 
reveal’s  to  us  the  fame  ftrong  deliberate  thought  which 
gives  to  Scotchmen  in  general  their  charaderiftic  found- 
nefs  of  judgment.  It  was  this  quality  in  Burns,  refined 
and  fublimed  as  in  a fuperior  nature,  which  enabled 
him  to  fee  and  judge  for  himlelf  the  fads  of  man  and 
nature,  fo  that  when  he  came  from  the  plough  into  the 
fociety  of  fome  of  the  greatefl  and  moll  cultivated  men 
of  his  time,  he  exchanged  his  thoughts  with  theirs  with 
a perfed  freedom  from  embarraffment  or  affedation. 
It  was  this  fame  quality  which  gave  fuch  truth  to  his 
ideas,  bringing  his  fpirit  into  adual  contad  with  the 
reality  of  things  inftead  of  being  fatisfied  with  the  re- 
fledions  of  them  in  the  conventionalities  and  generali- 
ties of  literature.  To  this  fame  flow,  ftrong  quality  of 
thought  we  may  attribute  that  graphic  force  and  racy 
life  which  animate  the  poetry  of  Burns  and  fhow  the 
obfervant  habit  of  his  mind,  and  that  rich  humour 
which  belongs  to  him  who  looks  clofely  into  things  as 
they  are,  and  fees  their  incongruities.  This  quality  at 
leaft  gave  that  particular  form  to  his  poetic  genius ; but 
how  are  we  to  underhand  that  genius  itfelf?  That 
large,  glowing,  flaftiing  eye,  where  has  it  fed  its  fire? 
It  is  the  fpirit  within  which  lights  it.  But  what  kind 
of  communion  does  that  fpirit  hold  with  the  fpirit  of 
the  univerfe  to  exercife  and  maintain  its  far-darting 


32 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


energies  ? Were  I to  be  afked  what  was  the  leading 
element  in  the  genius  of  Burns,  what  was  the  very 
centre  of  his  ftrength,  I fhould  anfwer  that  it  was 
his  vivid  fenfe  of  the  various  ftates  of  the  fpirit  of  man, 
a faculty  ftmilar  in  kind  to  that  which  I have  already 
noted  in  Scott,  but  far  greater  in  intenfity.  Scott  could 
appropriate  to  himfelf  and  awaken  in  others  the  fpirit 
of  the  pall,  but  Burns  dwelt  as  a mighty  wizard  with 
all  the  fpirits  which  fway  the  human  foul  as  his  familiars. 
In  this  confifts  the  excellence  of  “ Scots  wha  hae  wi’ 
Wallace  bled,”  that  the  very  fpirit  of  patriotic  heroifm 
is  in  the  verfe  and  in  the  words.  Similar  is  the  ex- 
cellence of  that  mod  brilliant  of  all  the  emanations  of 
his  genius,  “ The  Jolly  Beggars. ” The  very  fpirit  of 
vagabond  riot  is  in  every  line ; an  unclean  fpirit,  indeed, 
but  with  a life  and  power  which  none  but  the  very 
higheft  creative  genius  could  impart,  and  pofleffing 
withal  a courage  and  independence,  and  even  a con- 
ftancy  of  love,  which  mingle  in  fuch  ftrange  yet  truthful 
union  with  beggary  and  drunkennefs  and  luft.  So  it  is 
with  all  his  poetry.  The  very  fpirits  of  love,  of  luft, 
of  friendfhip,  of  independence,  of  drunkennefs,  of  re- 
ligious adoration,  of  univerfal  fympathy,  are  all  evoked 
in  turn  by  this  mighty  magician  in  all  their  life  and 
power,  bringing  with  them  “ airs  from  heaven  or  blafts 
from  hell.,,  This  powerful  fenfe  of  the  various  paflions 
and  fentiments  of  human  nature  exprefled  itfelf  by  its  own 
fheer  force  in  language  which  feems  as  if  fmitten  by  the 
ftrength  of  the  thoughts  to  receive  and  return  an  exadt 
impreflion  of  them.  Such  feems  to  me  to  be  the  eften- 
tial  nature  of  the  genius  of  Burns.  Slow,  forcible,  and 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER . 


33 


inner,  his  fpirit  thought  deeply  and  obferved  clofely, 
and,  in  the  world  of  paflion  and  fentiment,  bore  un- 
limited fway.  The  defeats  of  Scotch  genius  are  to  a 
confiderable  degree  fimilar  to  thofe  of  Englilh  genius, 
and  I fhall  therefore  not  dwell  on  them. 

Palling  from  Scotch  to  Irifh  genius  we  find  ourfelves 
in  quite  a different  province  of  human  thought.  Yet 
the  difference  is  not  fo  great  as  that  which  exifts  be- 
tween Englilh  and  Irifh  thought.  Irifh  genius  is  the 
exadl  oppofite  of  Englilh,  the  Englilh  mind  being  flow 
and  outer,  the  Irifh  quick  and  inner.  Hence  the  ex- 
cellences and  defedls  of  each  are  to  a great  degree  the 
oppofites  of  thofe  of  the  other.  We  fhall,  however, 
make  a truer  eftimate  if  we  lay  alide  this  antithefis,  and 
confider  by  themfelves  firlt  the  excellences  and  then 
the  defeds  of  Irifh  genius,  illuftrating  each  by  an  ex- 
ample. As  the  Irifh  mind  is  inner,  it  is  fitted  for 
fpeculation,  and  as  it  is  quick  and  can  confequently  take 
a rapid  view  of  a great  number  of  particulars,  it  is 
fitted  for  comprehenfive  fpeculation.  From  thefe  quali- 
ties alfo  another  charaderiltic  power  of  the  national 
genius  arifes.  In  confequence  of  his  inner  or  mufing 
tendency,  the  Irifhman  is  ever  ready  when  his  in- 
tereft  or  his  feelings  are  aroufed  to  Hart  a train  of 
thought  which,  by  reafon  of  its  inner  character,  has 
clofe  affinity  for  all  the  internal  refources  of  his  fpirit, 
and  draws  them  all  forth  to  give  it  colour  and  warmth, 
while  his  quicknefs  fupplies  him  with  ready  utterance. 
Hence  the  Irifh  mind  is  fitted  for  eloquence ; and  if 
we  combine  thefe  two  powers  of  eloquence  and  com- 
prehenfive fpeculation,  we  have  the  charader  of  the 


D 


34 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


genius  of  Edmund  Burke,  the  wifeft  orator  on  the  roll 
of  fame,  and  whofe  genius  Ireland  may  claim  as  all  her 
own.  Such  comprehenfive  fpeculation  is  trueft  wifdom, 
for  the  very  fpirit  of  indudive  philofophy  is  that  in- 
Head  of  poring  over  particular  fads,  in  order  by  force 
of  fludy  to  divine  their  caufes,  we  fhould  make  nature 
tell  her  own  fecrets,  and  fo  furvey  phenomena  that 
their  caufes  fhall  become  apparent  on  the  furface.  But 
Burke  combined  with  this  another  power,  which  by 
itfelf  would  have  conftituted  greatnefs ; that  inner 
Irifh.  eloquence  which  is  moft  potent  over  the  foul,  for 
it  comes  faturated  with  feeling,  glowing  with  paflion, 
decked  with  the  glorious  colours  of  imagination,  and 
every  kindred  fenfe  in  the  fpirits  of  men  is  awakened 
by  its  voice  to  enforce  its  didates.  Such  has  been  the 
genius  of  the  glorious  company  of  Irifh  orators.  I 
need  not  mention  their  names.  We  are  Irifhmen,  and 
we  know  them  all. 

But  in  that  province  of  fpeculation  for  which  our 
national  mind  is  fitted  by  its  innernefs,  it  pofTeffes  by 
reafon  of  its  quicknefs  another  aptitude  befides  com- 
prehenfivenefs.  The  quick  mind  paffes  with  facility 
from  one  idea  to  another,  the  flow  mind  cannot  ac- 
complifh  this  tranfition  fo  eafily,  and  is  therefore  apt 
in  fome  degree  to  mix  the  two  ideas  together.  The 
quick  mind  therefore  has  the  advantage  in  clearness ; 
and  when  an  inner  tendency  leads  it  to  the  myfteries 
of  fpirit  and  life,  it  excels  in  acutenefs.  Acute  fpecu- 
lation then  belongs  to  Ireland,  and  we  may  claim 
Berkeley  as  our  own.  True  his  blood  was  Englifh, 
but  his  life  and  all  the  early  influences  which  give  to 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER. 


35 


genius  its  fpecial  character  were  Irifh,  and  how  diligently 
he  furrendered  himfelf  to  their  education  appears  from 
his  having  been  a fellow  of  Dublin  College. 

Leaving  the  field  of  fpeculation  for  that  of  lighter 
literature,  we  may  obferve  that  the  Irifh  mind  is  fitted 
by  that  quicknefs  which  pafles  lightly  over  the  furface 
of  things  and  looks  on  them  from  the  outfide,  to  perceive 
thofe  flight  and  fuperficial  refemblances  with  which 
wit  and  fancy  play.  By  far  the  grandeft  wit  in  the 
Englifh  language  is  Swift’s,  and  he  was  an  Irilhman  by 
birth,  and  early  life,  and  education.  I call  it  grand,  for 
there  is  an  exceflive  brightnefs  and  keennefs  in  it  which 
makes  one  wonder.  His  laugh  founds  as  if  it  came 
from  a region  about  that  of  ordinary  men.  Nearer  to 
our  own  times  we  have  under  a different  form  of  genius 
an  illuftration  of  Irifh  wit  and  fancy  in  the  poetry  of 
Moore,  which,  above  all  elfe  in  the  language,  is  their 
molt  charming  infpiration. 

Yet  far  more  deeply,  more  touchingly  beautiful,  is 
the  infpiration  of  the  inner  quality  of  our  national 
thought  in  Goldfmith,  who  was  an  Irifhman  in  every 
feature  of  its  charadler.  In  Goldfmith  the  inner  fenti- 
ment  may  almoft  be  faid  to  preponderate  over  the  outer 
perception.  No  wonder  then  that,  with  this  quality 
joined  to  rapidity  of  thought,  he  fhould  be  in  fociety 
particularly  liable  to  our  national  failing,  blunder.  But 
when  his  genius  was  concentrated  on  an  object  how  it 
bathed  it  in  pathos  and  humour.  Indeed  this  union  of 
apparently  oppofite  fentiments  is  peculiarly  Irifh.  It 
reminds  one  of  the  mingled  gaiety  and  fadnefs  of  Irifh 
mufic ; and  as  we  read  the  “ Deferted  Village,”  or  the 


36 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


“ Vicar  of  Wakefield,1 ” the  poet  transforms  us  into  the 
very  image  of  “ Erin,”  with  “ the  tear  and  the  fmile 
in  her  eyes.”  Goldfmith  had  two  excellences  proper 
to  the  quick  mind  and  akin  to  comprehenfivenefs.  One 
of  thefe  was  verfatility.  Nihil  tetigit  quod  non  ornavit . 
The  poetry  of  fimple  life,  comedy,  the  eflay,  the  novel, 
prole  compofition  adapted  to  every  kind  of  fubjedl,  in 
all  he  was  the  greateft  of  his  day.  The  other  excel- 
lence was  that  fenfe  of  general  efFedt  which  I have 
marked  as  defedtive  in  Englifh  genius.  How  fine,  for 
example,  is  the  general  conception  of  the  fiory  in  the 
“ Vicar  of  Wakefield.”  Virtue  involved  in  a con- 
tinued fuccefiion  of  increafing  calamities,  but  preferving 
throughout  its  purity  and  dignity  and  peace;  thrown 
at  length  into  the  foulnefs  of  the  prifon,  and  reduced 
there  to  the  very  anguifh  of  death,  but  even  there 
purging  the  pollution  by  its  angelic  influence,  and  ftill 
triumphant  over  forrow  and  fin.  How  well  the  whole 
ftory  gradually  rifes  to  this  grand  climax.  There  is  a 
completenefs  in  it  which  may  alfo  be  recognized  in  the 
parts.  Each  chapter  has  this  finifli  as  a whole,  and 
often  ends  with  a pointed  fentence  which  reminds  one  of 
that  final  emphafis  that  is  heard  in  Celtic  intonation. 

But  we  have  been  looking  exclufively  at  the  bright  fide 
of  Irilh  genius,  contemplating  its  excellences  without 
noting  its  defedts.  Thefe  alfo  correfpond  to  the  cha- 
racter of  our  national  mind.  Becaufe  Irilh  thought  is 
quick,  it  is  liable  to  be  fuperficial.  Becaufe  it  is  quick 
and  inner,  it  is  liable  to  be  incorrect.  From  this  caufe, 
too,  our  oratory  is  liable  to  ftart  afide  from  its  proper 
purpofe  and  to  indulge  in  flights  of  its  own  in  which 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER. 


37 


that  purpofe  is  forgotten,  and  its  language  and  ideas 
ceafe  to  be  exadtly  fuited  to  the  very  fubjedt  which  it 
is  treating.  Traces  of  thefe  defedls  may  be  obferved 
in  moft  of  our  great  authors;  and  as  it  is  moll  falutary 
to  ftudy  our  own  peculiar  failings,  I (hall  notice  one  or 
two  examples  of  them  in  the  order  in  which  I have 
mentioned  them.  Nor  need  fuch  a ftudy  wound  our 
national  pride.  A fair  eftimate  of  the  real  merits  of 
our  great  men  can  never  take  them  down  from  that 
high  pre-eminence  which  the  unprejudiced  judgment  of 
mankind  has  affigned  to  them  ; and  they  will  be  doubly 
identified  as  Irifh  if  their  defedts  as  well  as  their  excel- 
lences are  found  to  be  thofe  to  which  there  is  a natural 
tendency  in  Irifh  thought.  I confefs,  however,  the 
fubjedl  is  a d iftafteful  one,  and  therefore  I fhall  be  brief. 

We  mull:  admit  that  there  was  a fuperficiality  in 
Goldfmith’s  genius.  The  charadlers  in  the  “ Vicar  of 
Wakefield/’  for  inftance,  are  fuperficial  in  a very  ftrong 
fenfe  of  the  word.  There  is  a flatnefs  in  them.  We 
are  not  enabled  to  go  round  them  and  fee  them  under 
different  afpedts.  They  were  not  formed  in  the  author’s 
mind  with  that  multiplicity  of  conflituent  principles 
which  would  fhow  differently  under  different  circum- 
ftances.  Hence  alfo  the  humour,  though  fo  genuine, 
partakes  of  the  fame  charadler.  We  could  tell  why 
we  laugh  at  Mrs.  Primrofe  and  the  family  riding  to 
church,  but  we  could  not  tell  with  the  fame  precifion 
why  we  laugh  at  the  fancied  grandeur  of  Shakefpeare’s 
Malvolio.  In  the  former  cafe  the  incongruity  is  be- 
tween the  adt  and  the  ferious  fimplicity  of  the  family, 
for  the  family  are  in  truth  little  more  than  an  embodi- 


38 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF 


ment  of  fimplicity.  In  the  latter  cafe  the  incongruity 
is  between  the  imagined  hate,  and  all  that  Malvolio  is ; 
but  it  would  not  be  eafy  to  tell  all  that  Malvolio  is. 
There  is  a fimilar  want  of  the  fubftance  of  reality  in 
the  defcription  of  the  fecond  family  life  after  Dr.  Prim- 
rofe  left  the  vicarage.  This  is  too  perfect  a picture  of 
paftoral  beauty  and  happinefs,  and  needs  lome  other 
coexifting  elements  to  give  it  truth  and  fubftance.  But 
I need  not  multiply  inftances. 

Moore’s  poetry  has  no  doubt  a fuperlicial  character* 
His  delineations  of  ftrong  and  deep  paffion  are  not 
really  ftrong  and  deep.  We  are  fhown  the  outfide  of 
it  in  the  manifeftations  which  conventionally  belong 
to  it,  and  it  is  lighted  up  with  many  a bright  gleam 
of  fancy ; but  the  depths  are  not  difclofed ; we 
hear  no  voice  which  troubles  the  fountains  of  feeling 
within  ourfelves,  becaufe  it  is  the  found  of  the  deep 
tumult  in  another. 

I know  not  that  there  is  any  incorrectnefs  in  Moore, 
but  it  furely  may  be  feen  in  Goldfmith.  We  muft  be 
confcious  of  it  in  the  ftyle  in  which  all  the  characters 
fpeak  in  the  “ Vicar  of  Wakefield.*’  The  author  gives 
them  all  his  own  perfect  pointed  ftyle.  But  this  mif- 
take  is  felt  moft  ftrongly  when  Doctor  Primrofe  narrates 
his  own  fimplicity  with  Goldfmith’s  admirable  hu- 
mour, as  if  he  were  confcious  of  its  ludicroufnefs. 
There  are  alfo  improbabilities  in  the  ftory  which  muft 
ftrike  every  impartial  reader ; but  I have  already  faid 
more  than  is  agreeable  to  myfelf,  or,  I fear,  to  my 
audience. 

The  faults  which  I have  mentioned  as  thofe  to  which 
Irifti  oratory  is  liable  may  be  obferved  in  moft  of  our 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER . 


39 


orators.  We  know  that  Burke  often  fpokenot  fo  much 
for  his  audience  as  for  himfelf;  his  fpirit  roaming  over 
the  fubjedl  in  all  its  length  and  breadth,  and  taking  in 
kindred  fubjedts  in  his  view  for  the  fake  of  the  lofty 
pleafure  of  fuch  a comprehenfive  furvey.  All  the 
treafures  of  his  knowledge  were  opened,  and  the  pic- 
tures of  his  imagination  difplayed,  for  the  pure  delight 
of  thus  foaring  in  fpirit,  while  his  audience  was  un- 
moved, liftlefs,  and  weary. 

Curran’s  glorious  flights,  too,  were  often  private 
excurfions  of  his  own  fpirit,  fometimes  not  very  inti- 
mately connected  with  his  fubjedl,  feldom  very  well 
fitted  to  perfuade  his  hearers. 

But,  while  we  thus  venture  for  our  own  inftrudtion 
to  obferve  the  defedts  of  Irifli  genius,  we  will  not 
honour  it  the  lefs.  As  Swift  was  the  firfi,  or  equal  to 
the  firfi:,  genius  of  his  day,  fo  Goldfmith  and  Burke 
were  inconteftably  the  greatefi:  of  theirs,  and  though 
faults  may  be  noted  in  Goldfmith’s  “ Vicar  of  Wake- 
field,” its  beauties  fo  predominate  that  there  is  fcarcely 
a work  in  the  language  which  has  fuch  charm  for  the 
heart.  His  comedies  and  his  poems  are  fcarcely  open 
to  adverfe  criticifm. 

If  I have  fucceeded  in  fhowing  a correfpondence 
between  the  charadter  of  a nation’s  mind  and  the  litera- 
ture which  it  produces,  perhaps  I may  be  allowed  to 
add  two  obfervations  in  conclufion. 

I faid  in  the  commencement  that  the  conclufions  of 
fcience,  when  tranflated  into  the  language  of  pradlice, 
become  the  rules  of  art;  and  fo  any  glimpfe  which  we 
may  catch  of  the  genefis  of  literature  mull  furnifh  hints 
as  to  the  way  in  which  its  development  may  be  pro- 


4° 


NATIONAL  CHARACTER . 


moted.  Now,  unlefs  I am  altogether  miftaken,  Irifh 
literature  mull:  grow  in  conformity  to  the  Irifh  mind. 
We  muft,  therefore,  freely  and  independently  follow 
our  own  impulfes,  look  at  nature  and  man  in  our  own 
way,  and  give  to  our  thoughts  an  expreflion  of  our 
own.  Never  was  there  fuch  need  for  originality  as 
now.  The  predominant  character  of  Englifh  litera- 
ture is  now  effentially  Englifh,  and  Englifh  genius  is  the 
very  oppofite  of  Irifh.  If  we  flavifhly  follow  Englifh 
models,  and  try  to  adopt  Englifh  modes  of  thought 
and  feeling,  we  fhall  never  attain  to  excellence. 

But,  fecondly,  every  day  brings  us  into  more  inti- 
mate union  with  the  Englifh  nation,  and  fubjedts  us 
more  to  Englifh  influence ; and  we  need  to  have  the 
independence  of  our  thought  maintained  by  a counter- 
vailing Irifh  influence.  This  can  be  obtained  only 
by  the  fpread  of  intellectual  cultivation  throughout  the 
entire  people,  which  fhall  qualify  them  to  appreciate 
and  honour  Irifh  genius.  In  pafl  time,  alas  ! this  cul- 
tivation was  all  but  confined  to  the  Proteftant  minority, 
and  on  it  it  was  thrown  to  maintain  the  honour  of  Irifh 
genius.  But  thofe  days  have  palled  away.  So  far  as  the  civil 
Government  is  concerned,  a blind  zeal  for  religion  no 
longer  fhuts  out  the  light  of  knowledge  from  the 
people.  Oh  ! that  among!!  ourfelves  that  zeal  were  more 
enlightened,  that  it  had  more  faith  in  truth,  and  beauty, 
and  goodnefs,  whatever  may  be  their  forms,  and  would 
welcome  them  as  filters,  even  though  unattended  by  a 
particular  religious  guide.  So  might  we  hope,  from 
the  united  mind  of  the  nation,  an  impulfe  to  its  genius 
which  fhould  carry  it  again  to  that  highefl  excellence 
which  it  has  already  repeatedly  attained. 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND  ROMANTIC 
SCHOOLS  OF  ENGLISH 
LITERATURE. 

AS  REPRESENTED  BY  SPENSER,  DRYDEN,  POPE, 
SCOTT,  AND  WORDSWORTH. 

BY  WILLIAM  RUSHTON,  M.A. 

PROFESSOR  OF  HISTORY  AND  ENGLISH  LITERATURE, 


queen’s  college,  cork. 


THE 


CLASSICAL  AND  ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS  OF 
ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


\T  is  eafy  to  condemn  defultory  reading, 
and  to  urge  the  importance  of  fyftem. 
Generalities  of  this  kind  are  readily  ad- 
mitted, for  we  all  know  that  we  ought  to 
be  fyftematic.  Pradlically,  however,  we  find,  if  we 
wifh  to  keep  pace  with  the  literature  of  the  day,  that 
there  is  a tendency  in  our  reading  to  become  defultory, 
and  our  belt  refolutions  are  often  infufficient  to  make 
us  read  lefs  and  think  more.  Still,  one  thing  is  indif- 
penfable,  namely,  to  acquire  found  general  principles  of 
criticifm;  for,  as  in  a judicious  colle&ion  of  paintings, 
where  the  works  of  the  great  mailers  are  clafhfied, 
thofe  of  the  Italian  fchool,  for  example,  on  the  one 
fide,  thofe  of  the  Flemifh  upon  the  other,  and  where 
the  pi&ures  are  arranged  progrefhvely  in  order  of  time, 
it  is  poffible,  in  a few  weeks,  to  learn  more  about  art, 
than  by  rambling  for  months  among  the  galleries  of 
the  Continent;  fo,  if  we  can  arrange  our  authors  in 
groups  or  dalles,  we  fhail  fludy  to  much  greater  profit, 
even  though  we  read  lefs  in  quantity,  becaufe,  by  this 


44 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


method,  companions  and  contrails  will  fuggeft  them- 
felves.  I propofe,  on  this  occafion,  to  confiaer  two  of 
the  great  fchools  in  Engl ilh  literature;  but  you  will 
allow  me  to  premife  a brief  obfervation  upon  the  terms 
clalfical  and  romantic. 

The  term  clalfical,  which  literally  means  belonging 
to  a clafs,  was  reflri6led  to  the  firft  clafs,  and  was  ori- 
ginally applied  to  the  bell  Greek  and  Latin  authors, 
whence  it  was  extended  to  the  Greek  and  Latin  writers 
generally.  When  we  fpeak  of  the  clalfical  fchool  in 
Englifh  literature,  we  refer  to  thofe  writers  who  have 
formed  their  llyle  upon  the  ancient  models,  and,  for  the 
fake  of  dillindlion,  we  might  call  it  the  Revived  Clafli- 
cal, or  the  Neo-Clafiical  fchool. 

The  word  romance  was  firli  given  to  thofe  languages 
which  were  derived  from  the  Lingua  Rom  an  a,  a cor- 
rupt form  of  the  Latin,  from  which  we  have  the 
French,  Italian,  and  Spanilh.  The  term  was  then 
extended  to  the  literature  which  appeared  in  thofe 
languages.  We  lhall  fee  that  narrative  heroic  poems, 
ariling  in  France,  were  called  romances  of  chivalry, 
whence  the  term  u romantic  ” was  applied  to  fimilar 
literature  in  Italy,  Spain,  and  other  countries.  I hold 
that  what  the  epos  or  epic  poem  was  in  the  heroic 
ages  of  Greece,  the  romance  was  in  the  heroic  ages  of 
Europe ; for,  though  there  are  points  of  diverlity 
between  them,  they  have  much  in  common : they  are 
both  narrative  heroic  poems.  But  as  the  romances 
were  full  of  wonderful  enterprifes  and  marvellous 
adventures,  the  word  “ romantic  ” came  to  fignify 
“ extravagant,”  and,  in  a bad  fenfe,  “ fantahic,”  or 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS . 


45 


“ untrue.”  One  morning,  a friend,  calling  upon  M. 
Guizot,  found  him  reading  the  “ Hiflory  of  the  Con- 
fulate  and  the  Empire/’  by  M.  Thiers.  “ You  fee,  my 
friend,”  faid  Guizot,  “ that  I fometimes  read  ro- 
mances;” fo,  too,  in  common  converfation,  we  fpeak 
of  romances  in  oppofition  to  veritable  hiflory.  There- 
fore, as  the  term  “ romantic  ” might  caufe  ambiguity, 
and  is  often  employed  in  an  unfavourable  fenfe,  I was 
almoft  tempted  to  fubftitute  the  word  “ mediaeval,”  or 
€i  European  ;”  but,  on  the  other  hand,  as  the  term  has 
been  fan&ioned  by  the  critics,  and  as  it  is  quite  cor- 
rect, when  properly  underflood,  it  feemed  better  to 
make  no  change. 

I fhall  firft  conlider  the  origin  and  progrefs  of 
romantic  literature ; then  the  revival  of  claffical  learning 
and  its  confequences ; and  then  endeavour  to  trace  the 
influence  of  the  two  fchools  on  Englifh  literature. 

Firfl,  I would  call  your  attention  to  the  fa£t,  that 
there  arofe  in  Europe,  during  the  middle  ages,  an  epic 
and  a dramatic  poetry,  quite  independently  of  the 
claffical  epos  and  drama.  It  is  to  be  obferved  that 
France  preceded  Italy  in  the  development  of  literary 
a&ivity  ; and  that,  while  in  the  fouth  of  France  the 
poetry  of  the  troubadours  partook  of  a lyric  chara&er, 
the  poetry  of  northern  France  was  decidedly  epic,  in 
the  form  of  romances  of  chivalry.  We  may  divide 
thefe  chivalric  romances  into  two  clafles : — 

(1) .  Thofe  which  refer  to  the  exploits  of  Arthur, 
fon  of  Uther  Pendragon,  the  Britifli  hero  who  defended 
Britain  againfh  the  Saxon  invaders. 

(2) .  Thofe  relating  to  Charlemagne  and  his  Paladins. 


46 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


The  original  fource  of  the  Arturian  romances  was 
the  fanciful  hiftory  of  the  Britons  by  Geoffrey  of 
Monmouth,  a Welfhman  who  flouriflied  in  the  reign 
of  King  Stephen.  The  excitement  produced  by  his 
work  was  very  great,  and  the  fubject  was  warmly  taken 
up  by  the  Norman  and  Anglo-Norman  poets.  Wace, 
in  particular,  who  wrote  in  the  reign  of  Henry  II, 
added  the  legends  of  the  “ Round  Table,’’  with  its 
feafts  and  games,  of  which  Geoffrey  makes  no  mention. 
The  fafhionable  literary  world  at  that  time,  as  diftin- 
guifhed  from  profeffed  fcholars,  was  engaged  in  liflening 
to  ftories  concerning  Arthur  and  his  knights  of  the 
Round  Table,  who  were  extolled  as  models  of  valour, 
chivalry,  and  courtefy.  Whilft  Arthur  and  the  magi- 
cian Merlin  claimed  admiration  as  examples  of  courage 
or  fkill,  the  names  of  Sir  Lancelot,  Sir  Gawain,  and 
Sir  Percival,  were  as  familiar  as  Hamlet  or  Othello  to 
ourfelves. 

Chivalry  was  the  foul  of  this  literature.  “ It  repre- 
fented,”  fays  Sifmondi,  <f  the  ideal  world  fuch  as  it 
exifted  in  the  imaginations  of  the  romance  writers.” 
Its  effential  chara&er  was  devotion  to  women  and  to 
honour.  Some  have  traced  the  origin  of  this  chival- 
rous devotion  to  women  in  the  manners  of  the  Ger- 
manic races ; others  in  the  influence  of  Chriflianity, 
which,  from  the  firft,  rendered  peculiar  honour  to  the 
female  fex.  But,  be  the  caufe  what  it  may,  we  find  in 
romantic  literature  a tone  of  higher  love  and  deeper 
devotion  than  we  can  trace  in  the  Greek  and  Latin 
writers.  Some  of  the  ancients,  efpecially  among  the 
Romans,  fyflematically  fpeak  of  women  as  inferiors  ; 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS. 


47 


but,  except  in  fatires  or  comic  ftories,  this  was  not  the 
tone  of  romantic  literature ; for  the  high-flown  fenti- 
ments  of  the  poets  gradually  exerted  a pradtical  influ- 
ence, and,  by  a juft  reward,  the  refpedl  paid  to  women 
elevated  and  refined  the  men  themfelves.  The  fame 
fpirit  has  been  inherited  by  modern  Europe  ; we  can- 
not conceive  of  a noble-minded  man,  who  does  not 
cherifh  a high  admiration  for  the  true  woman. 

The  feelingof  perfonal  honour  was  another  charadler- 
iftic.  There  is  perhaps  no  paflage  in  which  this  fenti- 
ment  is  more  powerfully  exprefled  than  by  Shakefpeare, 
wTho  lived  near  enough  to  the  middle  ages  to  be  well 
acquainted  with  the  fpirit  of  the  time.  His  “ Harry 
Hotfpur,”  the  model  of  a gallant  cavalier,  exclaims — 

“ By  heaven,  methinks  it  were  an  eafy  leap 

To  pluck  bright  honour  from  the  pale-faced  moon, 

Or  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep, 

Where  fathom-line  could  never  touch  the  ground, 

And  pluck  up  drowned  honour  by  the  locks, 

So  he,  that  doth  redeem  her  thence,  might  wear 
Without  corrival,  all  her  dignities.” 

But  Shakefpeare,  who  is  fond  of  looking  at  both 
fides  of  a queftion,  makes  Sir  John  FalftafF  take  a very 
different  view.  FalftafF  is  the  exa£t  oppofite  of  a chi- 
valrous chara&er ; he  reprefents  folid  matter  of  fa£t  as 
oppofed  to  the  ideal,  and  inquires, — 

“ Can  honour  fet  to  a leg  ? No.  Or  an  arm  ? No.  Or  take 
away  the  grief  of  a wound  ? No.  Honour  hath  no  Ikill  in  fur- 
gery  then?  No.  What  is  honour?  A word.  What  is  in  that 
word  ‘honour?’  What  is  that  honour?  Air.  A trim  reckon- 
ing! Who  hath  it?  He  that  died  o’  Wednefday.  Doth  he  feel 
it?  No.  Doth  he  hear  it?  No.  Is  it  infenfible  then ? Yea, 


+8 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


to  the  dead.  But  will  it  not  live  with  the  living?  No.  Why? 
Detradlion  will  not  fuffer  it : therefore,  I’ll  none  of  it.  Honour 
is  a mere  fcutcheon,  and  fo  ends  my  catechifm.” 

We  mull  beware  of  fuppofing,  becaufe  in  a given 
age  exalted  notions  of  honour  were  the  fafhionable 
theory,  that  there  were  not  thoufands  of  perfons,  pro- 
bably a large  majority,  who  defpifed  the  fafhion,  and 
took  good  care  of  their  own  interefts.  We  know  for  a 
fadt,  that  during  the  Crufades,  when  enthufiaftic  fpirits 
were  all  on  fire  to  join  the  Holy  War,  calculating  men 
lent  money  at  good  intereft  upon  the  lands  of  thofe  who 
wifhed  to  fet  out  upon  the  expedition ; and  in  many 
cafes  eventually  obtained  pofleflion  of  thofe  lands.  The 
difference  is,  as  we  look  back,  that  a gallant  knight, 
armed  at  all  points,  ready  for  the  crufade,  may  form 
the  fubjedt  of  a fplendid  pidture,  the  hero  of  a romance; 
whereas  the  money-lender  has  nothing  romantic  about 
him,  unlefs  to  ferve  as  a foil  to  the  pidture. 

The  romances  of  Arthur,  written  in  the  French 
language,  were  great  favourites  with  the  Norman  and 
Anglo-Norman  poets ; but  thofe  of  the  fecond  clafs, 
the  romances  of  Charlemagne  and  his  Paladins,  were 
entirely  French.  As  the  fplendid  vidtories  of  that 
monarch,  his  wars  with  the  Pagan  Saxons  and  the 
Saracens  of  Spain,  excited  popular  admiration,  he  be- 
came a romantic  hero,  to  whom  a thoufand  fantaftic 
adventures  were  attributed.  The  original  fource  of 
thefe  romances  was  the  chronicle  erroneoufiy  afcribed 
to  Turpin,  Archbifhop  of  Rheims,  which  gave  rife  to 
a long  feries  of  poetical  compofitions.  The  exploits 
of  Charlemagne  againib  the  Saracens  of  Spain  lent  a 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS. 


49 


crufading  tone  to  romances  of  this  clafs,  and  their  moft 
ftriking  chara&eriftic  is  enthufiafm  for  the  holy  wars, 
of  which  we  obferve  no  trace  in  the  romances  of  the 
Round  Table. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  fay  much  about  the  dramatic 
literature  of  the  middle  ages : ftill  it  is  neceffary  for  my 
argument,  that  I fhould  juft  touch  upon  that  part  of  the 
fubjecft.  There  are  great  differences  of  opinion  re- 
fpe£ting  the  origin  of  the  romantic  drama.  Boileau 
afcribes  it  to  the  pilgrims  who  returned  from  the  Eaft 
at  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century,  and  were,  fays  he, 
the  firft  to  play  myfteries.  Fontenelle  thinks  that  the 
clergy  firft  introduced  reprefentations  of  religious  fub- 
je&s,  and  that  the  minftrels  borrowed  the  idea  from 
them  ; while  Godwin,  in  his  life  of  Chaucer,  fuppofes 
that  the  idea  originated  with  the  minftrels,  and  that 
the  clergy  turned  it  to  their  own  purpofes. 

But  whichever  theory  we  adopt,  we  may  conclude 
that  the  origin  was  Chriftian  as  oppofed  to  Pagan,  and 
mediaeval  as  oppofed  to  antique.  The  earlieft  plays, 
called  Miracles,  were  founded  upon  incidents  in  the 
lives  of  the  faints ; while  the  Myfteries  were  taken  from 
narratives  in  the  Old  and  New  Teftament.  The  Anglo- 
Normans  were  particularly  attached  to  thefe  reprefen- 
tations, which  were  often  performed  in  the  cities  of 
Chefter  and  Coventry.  The  tranfition  from  this  old 
religious  fpe&acle  to  the  modern  drama  was  made  by 
the  moralities  or  moral  plays,  which  reprefented  virtues 
and  vices  perfonified.  Thefe  allegorical  plays  were  at 
their  height  in  England  during  the  reign  of  Henry  VII.; 
but  there  muft  have  been  a rapid  alteration  in  public 


E 


5° 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


tafte  before  the  year  1520,  when  “ a good  lie  comedie 
of  Plautus”  was  played  in  prefence  of. Henry  VIII.  at 
Greenwich.  The  ftudy  of  the  claffics  caufed  great 
changes  in  the  drama ; in  fa6t,  the  theatre  was,  for 
years,  the  battle-ground  of  the  two  fchools. 

This  may  fuffice  to  fhow,  that  epic  and  dramatic 
poetry  arofe  in  Europe  during  the  middle  ages;  and 
there  is  no  evidence  that  either  one  or  other  was  in- 
debted to  claffical  traditions  for  its  origin.  We  have 
now  to  obferve  the  great  change  which  took  place. 

It  has  been  alferted  by  fome  writers  that  the  revival 
of  claffical  learning  fhould  rather  be  called  the  revival 
of  Greek  learning,  becaufe  Latin  had  all  along  been 
cultivated  as  the  language  of  the  Church,  and  had  never 
been  baniffied  from  the  fchools.  But  we  mull  diftin- 
guifh  between  the  language  and  the  literature.  At 
prefent,  our  very  fchoolboys  are  tolerably  familiar  with 
the  manners  and  cuftoms  of  the  Romans : but  if  we 
examine  the  attempts  made  in  the  fourteenth  and 
fifteenth  centuries  to  reproduce  the  ancient  forms,  we 
Ihall  find  a firange  mixture  of  ideas.  By  the  early 
German  tranflators  of  the  claffics,  the  phrafe  “ Cicero 
conful”  was  rendered  “der  Biirgermeifter  Cicero,”  that 
is,  “ Burgomafter  Cicero,”  as  though,  comparing  great 
things  with  fmall,  a Roman  conful  correfponded  to  the 
burgomafter  of  a Dutch  town.  So  in  Chaucer’s 
“ Knight’s  Tale,”  the  noble  duke  Thefeus  commands 
Palamon  and  Arcite  each  to  bring  a hundred  knights 
armed  for  the  lifts ; and  Caxton,  in  his  preface  to 
“ King  Arthur,”  tells  us  of  Duke  Joffiua  who  brought 
the  children  of  Ifrael  into  the  land  of  beheft.  The 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS . 


5 1 


fame  peculiarity  is  obfervable  in  the  early  fpecimens  of 
Flemifh  art : Pilate  is  arrayed  as  a baron  of  the  Em- 
pire, with  a huge  fword  at  his  fide ; and  Herod,  if  I 
miflake  not,  appears  in  a robe  lined  with  fur,  a drefs 
well  fuited  to  our  northern  clime,  but  ill  calculated  for 
the  latitude  of  Paleftine.  In  theatrical  reprefentations, 
fimilar  difcrepancies  were  allowed  at  a much  later  date  : 
Catos  and  CaTars  appeared  upon  the  ftage  in  court 
dreffes  and  tye-wigs.  It  is  therefore  not  incorred  to 
fpeak  of  this  change  generally  as  the  revival  of  learning, 
though  we  may  admit  that  the  influence  of  Greek  lite- 
rature was  the  more  important  of  the  two. 

The  credit  of  reftoring  polite  letters  is  given  to  the 
poet  Petrarch,  who  taught  his  countrymen  to  admire 
the  beauties  of  Virgil  and  Cicero,  and  introduced  that 
adoration  of  the  ancient  writers,  which  in  the  following 
ages  was  carried  to  an  abfurd  extent.  But  Petrarch 
does  not  appear  to  have  made  much  progrefs  in  Greek ; 
and,  practically,  the  revival  of  Greek  literature  cannot 
be  dated  before  1395,  when  Emanuel  Chryfoloras  was 
induced  to  fettle  in  Italy  as  a teacher.  Meanwhile,  as 
the  Eafl  was  greatly  difturbed,  Greek  refugees  came 
over  in  large  numbers;  and  when  in  1453  Conftanti- 
nople  fell  into  the  power  of  the  Turks,  the  emigrants 
were  llill  more  numerous,  bringing  with  them,  in  many 
inflances,  valuable  manufcripts. 

The  enthufiafm  evoked  by  Greek  literature  may  be 
eafily  conceived  : ( 1 ) it  was  new  : for  although  during 
the  middle  ages  fome  weflern  fcholars  had  attained  a 
knowledge  of  Greek,  yet  in  general  the  literature  was 
unknown:  (2)  the  flores  of  Greek  learning  were  them- 


5* 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


felves  fufficient  to  call  forth  the  higheft  admiration.  Let 
us  reflect  for  a fingle  moment  upon  the  courfe  of 
Greek  literature : firft  we  have  epic  poetry,  then  a 
tranfition  to  hiftory,  then  the  drama,  oratory,  and  phi- 
lofophy.  Poetry  arofe  in  the  youthful  days  of  Greece, 
when  the  imaginative  powers  were  ftrong ; while  phi- 
lofophy  was  developed  as  the  refledlive  faculties  were 
more  matured.  Hence  to  thofe  who  are  interefted  in 
the  problems  of  higher  education,  it  may  be  worth 
while  to  confider,  whether  the  progreflive  development 
of  the  national  Greek  mind  can  furnifh  ufeful  hints  for 
the  training  of  individual  minds. 

When,  therefore,  this  encyclopaedia  of  literature  was 
unfolded  to  European  fcholars,  the  feeling  of  wonder 
was  intenfe.  It  was  like  the  difcovery  of  a new  world. 
We  cannot  be  furprifed  at  the  admiration  which  was 
excited,  or  that  the  love  of  Greek  and  Latin  abforbed 
the  minds  of  fcholars,  caufing  them  to  negleft,  if  not  to 
defpife,  other  branches  of  learning.  But  with  all  the 
advantages  gained,  there  were  certain  drawbacks. 

(i.)  A check  was  given  to  the  national  literature  in 
various  countries  of  Europe.  The  power  of  writing 
elegant  Latin  was  deemed  the  higheft  of  all  accomplifh- 
ments,  and  in  proportion  the  vernacular  dialedls  were 
undervalued.  Befides,  if  a man  wrote  in  Latin,  all 
Europe  could  read  and  admire  him : if  he  compofed  in 
his  native  tongue,  his  admirers  were  comparatively  few 
and  infignificant. 

(2.)  There  was  a blind  admiration  of  claflical  anti- 
quity. Some  of  the  fcholars  were  fo  far  enamoured  of 
Pagan  mythology,  that  they  almoft  forgot  to  be  Chrif- 
tians : they  worfhipped  the  claflics,  and  thus  the  ftudy 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS. 


53 


of  the  ancients  was  fatally  perverted.  The  learned, 
who  alone  had  accefs  to  this  knowledge,  magnified  their 
office,  and  claimed  an  unlimited  authority  for  their 
favourite  authors.  Juft  as  if  nothing  further  could  be 
expedled  from  original  efforts  of  the  human  mind, 
modern  works  were  barely  tolerated  ; or  if  efieemed  at 
all,  were  valued  for  any  refemblance  which  they  bore 
to  claffical  models.  Everything  elfe  was  rejected  as 
barbarous  and  unnatural. 

(3.)  As  a confequence  of  this,  hafty  condemnation 
was  paffed  upon  the  middle  and  early  ages  of  Europe, 
which  were  characterized  as  the  “ dark  ages.”  The 
Goths  were  by  no  means  the  mod  barbarous  of  the 
Germanic  invaders  who  overturned  the  Roman  empire  ; 
but  having  ravaged  Italy  they  acquired  a bad  name. 
Hence  “ Gothic  ” was  ufed  as  a term  of  reproach  for 
everything  barbarous  or  ignorant ; and  in  this  fenfe,  all 
the  mediaeval  inftitutions  were  fummarily  denounced  as 
Gothic.  The  poetry,  architecture,  and  fine  arts  of  the 
middle  ages  were  involved  in  one  common  cenfure, 
becaufe  they  differed  from  the  antique  ; and  this  opinion 
prevailed  until  the  middle  of  the  Jafl  century.  Addifon 
fays  of  fantaftic  poets,  “ I look  upon  thefe  writers  as 
Goths  in  poetry,  who,  like  thofe  in  architecture,  not 
being  able  to  come  up  to  the  beautiful  fimplicity  of  the 
old  Greeks  and  Romans,  have  endeavoured  to  fupply 
its  place  with  all  the  extravagances  of  an  irregular 
fancy.”  And  he  adds,  “ Were  I not  fupported  by  fo 
great  an  authority  as  that  of  Mr.  Dryden,  I fhould  not 
venture  to  obferve,  that  the  tafte  of  moft  of  our  Englifh 
poets,  as  well  as  readers,  is  extremely  Gothic.” 

It  is  very  difficult  to  affign  dates  for  the  duration  of 


54 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


any  fcbool  in  literature  ; but  if  I may  hazard  an  opinion, 
I would  date  the  rife  and  progrefs  of  the  claffical  fchool, 
from  1400  to  1550;  the  contell  of  the  two  fchools 
from  1550  to  1650;  the  triumph  of  the  neo-claflical 
fchool  from  1650  to  1750;  and  the  reaction  in  favour 
of  mediaeval  romance  from  1750  to  our  own  time.  Of 
courfe  I give  the  dates  in  round  numbers. 

Perhaps  the  moft  interefting  period  is  that  of  conteft  ; 
and  we  {hall  find  indications  of  the  ftruggle  in  the 

Faerie  Queene  ” of  Spenfer. 

The  difficulties  which  the  commentators  have  found 
in  the  “ Faerie  Queene  ” are  partly  to  be  explained 
as  refulting  from  the  conteft  of  the  two  fchools.  The 
poets  of  that  age  experienced  a curious  ffruggle  in  their 
own  minds : for  when  they  leaned  to  the  romantic 
fchool,  they  became  the  favourites  of  the  public ; when 
they  followed  the  claffical  fchool,  they  were  praifed  by 
the  learned.  Thus  while  Ariofto,  who  is  full  of  knights, 
giants,  cables,  and  enchantments,  indulged  his  tafte  for 
mediaeval  romance,  Taflo,  who  wrote  later,  endea- 
voured in  treating  a romantic  fubjedl  to  emulate  claffical 
purity,  and  may  be  faid  to  have  trimmed  between  the 
two  fchools.  Ariofto  was  preferred  by  the  people  of 
Italy,  while  the  learned,  and  particularly  the  French 
critics,  gave  the  preference  to  Tafio. 

We  (hall  fee  that  Spenfer  wavered  between  the  two 
fchools ; but  as  if  to  complicate  matters  ftill  further  he 
introduces  allegory.  In  his  letter  to  Sir  Walter  Ra- 
leigh, expounding  his  whole  intention,  he  fays  that  the 
cc  Faerie  Queene  ” is  a continued  allegory  or  dark  con- 
ceit; that  the  general  end  of  the  book  is  to  falhion  a 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS. 


55 


gentleman  or  noble  perfon  in  virtuous  difcipline ; and 
that  to  give  a colouring  of  hifloric  fi&ion  he  has  chofen 
the  te  Hiflory  of  King  Arthur.”  Not  content  with  this 
moral  allegory,  he  makes  a fecondary  reference  to  Queen 
Elizabeth  and  the  nobles  of  her  court ; fo  that  between 
the  allegorical  references  and  the  political  allulions,  his 
commentators  find  enough  to  do. 

Some  of  the  critics  have  regarded  allegory  as  a diflindt 
kind  of  poem,  and  have  laid  down  rules  applicable  to 
it ; others  remark  that  as  romantic  ftories  were  then 
going  out  of  fafhion,  a moral  tone  was  added  to  make 
them  look  refpeclable  ; others  advife  us  to  difregard  the 
allegory  altogether,  and  one  of  them  obferves,  “ if  you 
leave  it  alone  it  won’t  bite  you.” 

But  let  us  examine  further.  Spenfer  took  the  ro- 
mantic “ Hiflory  of  Arthur,”  as  the  foundation  of  his 
work,  and  he  tranflates  freely  from  Geoffrey  of  Mon- 
mouth, the  prime  fource  of  Arturian  romance.  As  to 
the  condudl  of  the  poem,  he  fays  in  the  letter  to  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh,  “ I have  followed  all  the  poets  hiflori- 
cal : firft  Homer,  then  Virgil ; after  him  Ariofto  and 
Taffo.”  By  poets  hiftorical  he  muft  mean  thofe  who 
have  treated  heroic  fubjedls : two  are  clafiical,  Homer 
and  Virgil ; two  are  romantic,  Ariofio  and  Taffo  ; and 
of  the  latter,  Warton  thinks  that  Ariofio  was  Spenfer’s 
favourite. 

I regard  the  “ Faerie  Queene  ’’  as  a narrative  heroic 
poem,  founded  upon  the  romance  of  “ King  Arthur,” 
borrowing  freely  from  Ariofio  and  Taffo,  but  influenced 
and  modified  by  the  clafiical  epic  poets,  Homer  and 
Virgil. 


56 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


This  poetical  work  is  employed  by  Spenfer  allegori- 
cally to  illufhrate  the  courfe  of  education  fuitable  for  a 
gentleman,  with  a fecondary  reference  to  Queen  Eliza- 
beth and  her  nobles.  But,  as  it  feems  to  me,  the  alle- 
gorical view,  whether  in  the  firft  or  fecond  intention, 
is  the  leaft  poetical  part  of  the  performance. 

In  eftimating  the  poetry  of  Spenfer,  I fhall  perhaps 
exprefs  my  meaning  more  clearly,  if  I firft  confider  his 
chief  merit,  and  then  allude  to  the  great  defedl  with 
which  the  “ Faerie  Queene  ” is  charged. 

Poetry  has  been  called  a happy  union  of  two  of  the 
fine  arts : it  has  borrowed  its  harmonies  from  mufic, 
and  its  images  from  painting.  But  while  its  harmonies 
are  addrefied  diredlly  to  the  ear,  its  images  are  diredled 
to  the  eye  of  the  mind,  flill  through  the  medium  of  the 
ear.  Milton  has  well  explained  this,  in  fpeaking  of  the 
filler  art,  mufic : 

<(  There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 
To  the  full-voiced  quire  below, 

In  fervice  high,  and  anthems  clear, 

As  may  with  fweetnefs,  through  mine  ear, 

DifTolve  me  into  ecftafies, 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes.” 

Poetry,  no  more  than  mufic,  makes  a diredl  appeal 
to  the  eye : hence  if  the  words  alone  reach  the  ear, 
charming  it  with  melodious  founds,  while  no  pidlure 
is  prefented  to  the  mind,  half  the  effedl  mull  be  loll ; 
efpecially  in  defcriptive  poetry,  where  it  is  not  fufficient 
that  our  minds  be  in  a pafiive  Hate,  ready  to  receive 
imprelfions : on  the  contrary,  there  mull  be  great  ac- 
tivity of  mind  to  realife  the  defcriptions  of  the  poet. 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS. 


57 


Still,  where  difficulties  arife,  the  fault  is  not  always 
in  the  reader.  The  poet,  who  excels  in  imagery,  may 
fometimes  fail  in  his  verification : and  another,  how- 
ever fcrupulous  in  polifhing  his  verfes,  may  neglect  the 
pi&urefque.  Thus  Pope  has  been  accufed,  though  in 
fome  cafes  unjuftly,  of  fpoiling  Homer’s  pictures,  in 
attempting  to  prefent  them  in  an  Englifh  form. 

Now  Spenfer  is  remarkable  for  excellence  in  both 
refpefts.  As  Profeffor  Craik  has  remarked,  “ his  poetry 
is  vifion  unrolled  after  vifion,  to  the  found  of  endlefsly 
varying  mufic.  No  writer  has  evinced  a deeper  feeling 
for  all  forms  of  the  beautiful,  nor  have  words  ever  been 
made  to  embody  thought  with  more  wonderful  art.” 

For  proof  of  this  I mulf  refer  you  to  the  poem  itfelf. 
Time  will  not  allow  me  to  make  more  than  one  or  two 
remarks.  When  Una  has  been  abandoned  by  theRed- 
crofs  Knight,  and,  wearied  with  her  wandering,  re- 
pofes  in  the  foreft, — 

“ her  angel’s  face 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven  fiiined  bright, 

And  made  a funfiiine  in  the  fliady  place : 

Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  fuch  heavenly  grace.” 

A lion  rufhing  from  the  thicket  is  overawed  by  her 
prefence,  and  attends  upon  her, — 

<(  As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet: 

O how  can  beauty  matter  the  moft  ftrong, 

And  fimple  truth  i'ubdue  avenging  wrong. 
******** 
t£  The  lion,  lord  of  every  beaft  in  field,” 

Quoth  file,  “ his  princely  puiflance  doth  abate, 

And  mighty  proud  to  humble  weak  does  yield.” 

But  he,  my  lion  and  my  noble  lord, 

How  does  he  find  in  cruel  heart  to  hate 


58 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


Her  that  him  loved,  and  ever  moft  adored 
As  the  god  of  my  life  ! why  hath  he  me  abhorred  !*  " 

This  rapid  change  of  movement,  in  the  laft  line,  to 
denote  the  paroxyfm  of  her  grief,  is  a mailer-piece  of 
rhythm. 

The  bower  of  blifs,  in  the  fecond  book,  is  portrayed 
with  wonderful  ikill,  and  illuftrates  the  maxim,  Ars 
eft  celare  artem , — 

(i  And  that  which  all  fair  works  doth  moft  aggrace, 

The  art,  which  all  that  wrought,  appeared  in  no  place." 

The  mufical  harmony  of  the  enchanted  ground  is 
equally  remarkable : — 

u Eftfoons  they  heard  a moft  melodious  found 
Of  all  that  mote  delight  a dainty  ear, 

Such  as  at  once  might  not  on  living  ground, 

Save  in  this  paradife,  be  heard  elfewhere  : 

Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did  it  hear 
To  read  what  manner  mufic  that  mote  be  : 

For  all  that  pleafing  is  to  living  ear 
Was  there  conforted  in  one  harmony, 

Birds,  voices,  inftruments,  winds,  waters,  all  agree. 

The  joyous  birds  fhrouded  in  cheerful  fhade 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempred  fweet, 

The  angelical  foft  trembling  voices  made 
To  the  inftruments  divine  refpondence  meet: 

The  filver-founding  inftruments  did  meet 
With  the  bafe  murmur  of  the  water’s  fall: 

The  water’s  fall  with  difference  difcreet, 

Now  foft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call : 

The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  anfwered  to  all." 

Now  the  queftion  arifes,  if  the  poetry  of  Spenfer 
poffefles  thefe  merits,  as  may  abundantly  be  proved, 
and  as  all  the  critics  admit,  how  is  it  that  his  greateft 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS . 


59 


work  is  feldom  read,  and  Hill  more  rarely  read  through? 
Some  reply  that  his  language  is  obfolete,  others  that  he 
is  too  allegorical,  or  too  fantaftic,  or  wanting  in  human 
intereft.  But  the  great  charge  is  that  the  conftrudtion 
of  the  “ Faerie  Queene”  is  faulty,  that  the  poem  is 
deficient  in  unity.  Dryden’s  opinion  was  that  <c  the 
a&ion  of  the  poem  is  not  one : there  is  no  uniformity 
of  defign : the  poet  aims  at  the  accomplifhment  of  no 
attion.”  Some  of  Spenfer’s  editors  feem  to  join  in  the 
fame  cenfure : one  informs  us  that  it  is  no  great  matter 
in  what  order  we  begin  to  read,  whether  we  commence 
with  the  firfl  book  or  the  third  : and  another  thinks  it 
well  for  Spenfer’s  reputation  that  he  never  completed 
the  poem,  that  we  have  only  fix  entire  books  of  the 
twelve  which  he  defigned. 

As  this  want  of  unity  is  alleged  againft  Ariofto,  and 
againft  Shakefpeare  in  dramatic  poetry,  we  may  confider 
the  queftion  more  generally.  I think  that  Schlegel  has 
hit  the  mark,  when  he  fays  that  the  genius  of  claffical 
art  is  plaftic  or  flatuefque,  but  that  the  genius  of  ro- 
mantic art  is  pidturefque.  Let  us  fee  what  is  involved 
in  this  comparifon. 

In  fculpture  we  have  form,  and  particularly  the 
forms  of  men  and  animals.  Inanimate  objedls  are  rarely 
introduced,  unlefs  it  be  a fragment  of  rock,  or  the 
trunk  of  a tree  : landfcape  is  out  of  the  queflion,  except 
in  reliefs  or  friezes.  Thus  fculpture  deals  with  fingle 
figures,  or  groups  limited  in  number  and  eafily  taken  in 
at  a glance.  We  lofe  in  extent  but  we  gain  in  concen- 
tration. Hence  unity  lies  very  near  this  kind  of  art ; 
and  as  all  art  endeavours  to  give  variety  in  unity,  here 


6o 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


the  chief  difficulty  is  to  produce  variety,  while  the  idea 
of  unity  readily  fuggefts  itfelf. 

The  ftatuefque  charadter  of  Greek  literature  is  par- 
ticularly feen  in  tragedy,  where  never  more  than  three, 
or  in  one  play  four,  perfons  are  brought  upon  the  ftage 
at  the  fame  time. 

On  the  other  hand,  in  painting,  the  forms  are  all 
reduced  to  a flat  furface,  but  we  gain  in  colour  and  in 
extent : we  have  landfcape,  and  there  may  be  great 
variety  of  figure.  But  while  we  gain  in  extent,  we 
may  loffi  in  concentration ; and  painters  are  fometimes 
accufed  of  this  very  fault,  want  of  unity  in  adtion. 
Some  critics  ((hallow  ones,  fays  Kugler)  have  brought 
this  charge  againft  Raphael’s  celebrated  pidture  of  the 
Transfiguration.  The  defence  of  the  painters  is  that 
they  are  allowed  to  introduce  feveral  adtions,  provided 
that  there  be  unity  of  deiign,  and  if  all  the  adtions  ferve 
to  illuftrate  one  idea. 

The  fame  argument  is  advanced  by  Bifhop  Hurd  in 
defence  of  Spenfer.  He  contends  that  “ the  unity  of 
his  poems  confifts  in  the  relation  of  its  feveral  adven- 
tures to  one  common  original — the  appointment  of  the 
* Faerie  Queene,’  and  to  one  common  end — the  com- 
pletion of  her  injunctions.  This,  it  is  true,  is  not 
claffical  unity,  which  confifts  in  the  reprefen tation  of 
one  entire  adtion ; but  it  is  a unity  of  another  fort,  a 
unity  refulting  from  the  refpedt  which  a number  of 
related  adtions  have  to  one  common  purpofe.  In  other 
words,  it  is  a unity  of  defign  and  not  of  adtion.” 

While  admitting  the  general  principle,  I am  not 
quite  prepared  to  fay,  that  it  is  fully  applicable  to 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS . 


6 1 

Spenfer.  I muft  candidly  confefs  that,  in  the  “ Faerie 
Queene,”  the  incidents  are  fo  varied,  and  the  changes 
of  a&ion  fo  fudden,  as  to  make  it  doubtful  whether  the 
defign  is  fufficiently  obvious.  But  this  I will  fay,  that 
if  the  unity  of  the  ce  Faerie  Queene  ” can  be  defended 
at  all,  it  muft  be  upon  the  ground  taken  by  Bifhop 
Hurd,  and  on  no  other. 

We  may  obferve  that  Dr.  Hurd  has  anticipated  the 
reafoning  fo  triumphantly  employed  by  Schlegel  and 
Coleridge  in  defence  of  Shakefpeare  and  the  romantic 
drama.  For  as  Weftminfter  Abbey  is  not  to  be  deemed 
grotefque  or  barbarous  becaufe  its  architedture  differs  from 
that  of  the  Parthenon  at  Athen.s,  fo  Shakefpeare  is  not 
to  be  cenfured  merely  becaufe  he  differs  from  Sophocles. 
It  has  been  fhown  that  Shakefpeare’s  dramas  exhibit  a 
unity  of  defign,  though  not  of  adlion  ; hence,  if  we  find 
the  fame  law  in  the  works  of  the  romantic  poets,  both 
epic  and  dramatic,  we  are  juftified  in  affuming  this  as  a 
charadleriftic  of  the  fchool. 

The  great  advocate  of  claffical  taftes  at  this  period 
was  Ben  Jonfon,  who  was  educated  at  Weftminfter 
under  the  great  fcholar  William  Camden,  and  after- 
wards fpent  fome  time  at  St.  John’s,  Cambridge.  En- 
dowed with  a clear  intelledl,  and  proud  of  his  claffical 
attainments,  he  infilled  upon  ftridl  adherence  to  rule. 
Some  of  his  efforts  difplay  a charming  fancy — for  ex- 
ample, in  “ Cynthia’s  Revels,”  the  fong  of  Hefperus, 
u Queen  and  huntrefs,  chafte  and  fair,”  is  a perfedl 
gem — but  to  the  higher  fields  of  imagination  he  feldom 
rifes.  When,  however,  he  comes  down  to  real  life, 
and  fatirically  lafhes  the  vice  of  the  day,  he  is  great. 


6 2 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


But  with  this  he  was  not  content ; he  tried  to  deftroy 
the  traditions  of  the  middle  ages,  to  fubftitute  intellect 
for  imagination  as  the  chief  power  in  poetry,  and  to 
bring  poetry  herfelf  within  the  limits  of  dry  regularity. 
His  attempts  were  only  part  of  the  great  movement 
which  was  then  combating  the  romantic,  and  intro- 
ducing the  critical  element. 

Ben  Jonfon  always  aflumed  an  air  of  patroniflng 
fuperiority  over  the  untaught  genius  of  Shakefpeare, 
whom  he  defcribes  as  having  “ fmall  Latin  and  lefs 
Greek : ” but  the  fertility  of  Shakefpeare  contrafled 
with  his  own  labour  in  compofltion  was  ever  a fore 
point  with  Jonfon.  The  players  had  faid  in  praife  of 
Shakefpeare  that  he  never  blotted  (Le.  corrected ) a line; 
to  which  Jonfon  replied,  “ Would  he  had  blotted  out 
a thoufand  !”  which  they  thought  a malevolent  fpeech. 
The  negleft  of  careful  corre&ion,  he  maintained,  was 
Shakefpeare’s  great  fault ; for  while  he  had  “ an  excel- 
lent phantafy  and  gentle  expreflions,  he  flowed  with 
that  facility,  that  fometirnes  it  was  neceflary  he  fhould 
be  flopped.  His  wit  was  in  his  own  power ; would 
the  rule  of  it  had  been  lo  too.” 

It  was  owing,  in  a great  meafure,  to  the  influence  of 
Ben  Jonfon  and  his  followers,  that  Shakefpeare,  though 
deemed  a wonderful  genius,  was  confidered  an  incor- 
re£t  poet  for  having  violated  rule,  and  not  having  fuf- 
ficiently  controlled  his  natural  exuberance.  This 
opinion  was  maintained  until  the  beginning  of  the  pre- 
fent  century. 

The  period  of  the  Civil  Wars  produced  one  great 
poet,  Milton.  Although  he  was  a deep  ftudent  of 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS. 


63 


claflical  antiquity,  yet  he  was  alfo  a diligent  reader  of 
the  old  romances,  as  might  be  proved  by  many  of  his 
alluflons ; but  it  is  impoflible,  within  the  limits  of  this 
ledure,  to  difcufs  his  influence : 

c<  His  foul  was  like  a ftar  and  dwelt  apart.” 

He  amply  deferves  feparate  conflderation,  for  nothing 
could  be  more  unfatisfadory  than  an  imperfed  eftimate 
of  Milton.  I therefore  pafs  on  to  the  development  of 
the  neo-claflical  fchool  in  the  works  of  Dryden  and 
Pope. 

It  has  often  been  faid  that  Dryden  was  an  imitator 
of  Boileau;  and  French  influence  is  explained  by  the 
fad  that  Charles  II,  who  had  fpent  much  of  his  time 
upon  the  Continent,  introduced  foreign  taftes  at  his 
return. 

There  is  fome  truth  in  this ; but  in  cafes  where  a 
refemblance  appears  between  Englifh  and  foreign  lite- 
rature, we  mull  not  haftily  conclude  that  our  country- 
men are  mere  imitators  of  the  foreigner.  At  the 
beginning  of  this  century,  it  happened  that  Schlegel,  at 
Vienna,  and  Coleridge,  in  London,  took  flmilar  views 
about  Shakefpeare.  Immediately  there  was  an  outcry 
that  Coleridge  had  been  borrowing  from  the  German ; 
but  he  was  able  to  prove  that  his  opinions  had  been 
formed  independently,  a fad  which  gave  them  addi- 
tional fcientific  value,  and  furnifhed  another  inftance 
that  original  theories  may  fuggeft  themfelves  at  the  fame 
time  to  inquirers  in  different  parts  of  Europe. 

It  is  not  as  though  Dryden’s  views  had  been  entirely 
unknown  in  Englifh  literature.  In  admiration  of 


64 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


claflical  models,  and  the  defence  of  regularity,  we  may 
regard  Dryden  as  the  fucceflor  of  Ben  Jonfon.  No 
doubt,  when  Dryden  quotes  Boileau  with  refpeft,  as 
the  u admirable  Boileau,”  and  calls  him  €€  a living 
Horace  and  a Juvenal,”  fuch  expreflions  prove  the 
high  efteem  in  which  the  French  critic  was  held.  But 
the  changes  in  literature,  as  in  philofophy,  are  governed 
by  general  laws ; and  it  is  fafer  to  fay  that  flmilar  in- 
fluences produced  fimilar  refults,at  home  and  abroad — 
that  what  Boileau  was  doing  in  France,  Dryden  was 
doing  in  England. 

They  both  combated  the  traditions  of  the  romantic 
fchool,  and  endeavoured  to  eftablifh  theclaflical.  Their 
fpirit  was  critical ; their  principle  was  conformity  to 
rule ; their  ftandard  was  clafiical  antiquity.  As  the 
weaknefs  of  the  romantic  fchool  was  on  the  fide  of 
extravagance  in  imagination  and  in  feeling,  the  new 
fchool  attached  great  importance  to  corredtnefs,  by 
which  they  underftoood  unity  of  conftru&ion,  and 
fcrupulous  regard  to  form,  efpecially  in  verfification. 

Before  we  mention  the  peculiarities  of  the  new 
fchool,  we  may  watch  the  tranfltion  by  obferving  the 
criticifms  pafled  by  Dryden  upon  his  predeceflors ; for 
no  poet  has  written  a greater  number  of  prefaces  and 
defences  difcufling  the  firft  principles  of  his  art. 

He  does  juftice  to  Shakefpeare,  acknowledging  that 
he  was  the  man  who,  of  all  modern,  and,  perhaps, 
ancient  poets,  had  the  largeft  and  moil  comprehenflve 
foul ; that  thofe  who  accufe  him  to  have  wanted 
learning  give  him  the  greater  commendation  ; he  was 
naturally  learned ; he  needed  not  the  fpedtacles  of 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS. 


65 

books  to  read  nature  ; he  looked  inwards,  and  found 
her  there.  But  Ben  Jonfon  was  a moll  learned  and 
judicious  writer  ; a moil  fevere  judge  of  himfelf  and 
others.  If,  he  adds,  I would  compare  him  with 
Shakefpeare,  I mull  acknowledge  him  the  more  correct 
poet,  but  Shakefpeare  the  greater  wit.  Shakefpeare 
was  the  Homer  or  father  of  our  dramatic  poets ; Jonfon 
was  the  Virgil,  the  pattern  of  elaborate  writing ; I 
admire  him,  but  I love  Shakefpeare. 

We  have  feen  that  he  condemns  Spenfer  for  want 
of  uniformity  of  defign ; he  further  cenfures,  as  faults 
of  fecond  magnitude,  his  obfolete  language,  and  the  ill 
choice  of  his  ftanza ; but  praifes  the  harmony  of  his 
verfes,  as  inferior  only  to  Virgil  among  the  Romans, 
and  Waller  among  the  Englifh. 

He  is  ftill  harder  upon  Milton,  urging  that  the  fub- 
je<ft  of  “ Paradife  Loft  ” is  not  that  of  a heroic  poem 
properly  fo  called,  becaufe  “ Milton’s  defign  is  the 
lofing  of  our  happinefs,  whereas,  in  all  other  epic 
works,  the  event  is  profperous ; his  heavenly  machines 
are  many,  and  the  human  perfons  are  but  two.”  “ No 
man,”  fays  he,  “ has  more  happily  copied  the  manner 
of  Homer,  or  fo  copioufly  tranflated  his  Grecifms,  or 
the  Latin  elegancies  of  Virgil.  It  is  true,  he  runs  into 
a flat  of  thought,  fometimes  for  a hundred  lines  toge- 
ther, but  it  is  when  he  has  got  into  a track  of  Scrip- 
ture.” , 

If  we  may  believe  the  anecdotes  of  the  time,  Milton 
had  faid  that  Dryden  was  a rhymer  and  no  poet. 
Dryden  rejoins  that  ic  whatever  caufes  Milton  may 
allege  for  the  abolilhing  of  rhyme,  his  own  particular 

F 


66 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


reafon  plainly  was  that  rhyme  was  not  his  talent ; he 
had  neither  the  ease  of  doing  it,  nor  the  graces  of  it, 
as  proved  by  his  youthful  verfes,  where  his  rhyme  is 
always  forced,  and  comes  hardly  from  him,  at  an  age 
when  the  foul  is  molt  pliant,  and  the  pafiion  of  love 
makes  almoft  every  man  a rhymer,  though  not  a poet.” 
It  is  reported,  however,  that  one  day,  at  Will’s 
coffee-houfe,  Dryden  was  fpeaking  in  high  terms  about 
“ Paradife  Loft,”  when  a young  man  in  the  company 
obferved,  “ But,  fir,  it  is  not  in  rhyme.”  “ No,”  faid 
Dryden,  “ it  is  not  in  rhyme,  but  this  man  cuts  us  all 
out,  and  the  ancients  too.”  And  yet  Dryden  conceived 
the  fingular  idea,  not  merely  of  altering  the  verfifica- 
tion,  but  adtually  of  dramatizing  the  fubjedl.  Aubrey 
tells  us  that  Dryden  waited  upon  the  blind  old  bard, 
afking  permiflion  to  put  his  great  poem  into  rhyme. 
“ Aye,”  faid  Milton,  “ you  may  tag  my  verfes  if  you 
will.”  At  all  events,  in  1674,  foon  after  Milton’s 
death,  Dryden  publifhed  what  he  called  an  opera,  en- 
titled the  “ State  of  Innocence,’’  founded  upon  “ Para- 
dife Loft.”  This  opera,  or  rhymed  tragedy,  which 
was  never  a&ed,  is  altogether  a very  ftrange  produ&ion  ; 
but  thefe  four  lines  are  perhaps  the  moft  remarkable, 
nor  were  they  fpared  by  the  critics : — 

u Seraph  and  cherub  carelefs  of  their  charge 
And  wanton,  in  full  eafe  now  live  at  large  : 
Unguarded  leave  the  paffes  of  the  fky, 

And  all  diflolved  in  hallelujahs  lie.” 

“ I have  heard,”  fays  one  critic,  “ of  anchovies  dif- 
folved  in  fauce ; but  never  of  an  angel  dilfolved  in 
hallelujahs.” 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS. 


6? 


Twenty  years  afterwards,  Dryden  confelTed  that 
when  he  wrote  this  opera  “ he  knew  not  half  the  ex- 
tent of  Milton’s  excellence.” 

The  progreiive  development  of  the  correct  fchool  is 
marked  by  the  names  of  Denham,  Waller,  Dryden, 
and  Pope. 

“ Denham  and  Waller  improved  our  veriication,” 
fays  Prior,  “ and  Dryden  perfected  it.”  And  lo  Pope 
tells  us — 

“ Waller  was  fmooth,  but  Dryden  taught  to  join 
The  varying  verfe,  the  full  refounding  line, 

The  long  majeftic  march,  and  energy  divine.” 

It  does  feem  llrange,  after  we  have  been  reading 
Chaucer,  Spenfer,  and  Shakefpeare,  writers  of  no 
mean  order,  to  find  Dryden  averting,  and  Dr.  Johnfon 
repeating,  that  Sir  John  Denham  and  Mr.  Waller  were 
the  fathers  of  Englifh  poetry.  But  our  furprife  may 
be  modified  by  reiedting  that,  between  the  time  of 
Spenfer  and  Dryden,  there  had  arifen  a group  of  quaint 
and  fantallic  poets,  beginning  with  Donne  and  ending 
with  Cowley.  To  this  Dr.  Johnfon  refers,  when  he 
fays,  “ After  about  half  a century  of  forced  thoughts  and 
rugged  metre,  fome  advances  towards  nature  and  har- 
mony had  been  already  made  by  Waller  and  Denham. 
But  the  new  verification,  as  it  was  called,  may  be  con- 
sidered as  owing  its  eiablifhment  to  Dryden,  from  whofe 
time  it  is  apparent  that  Englifh  poetry  has  had  no  ten- 
dency to  relapfe  into  its  former  favagenefs.” 

Without  entering  into  detail,  we  may  hate  the  prin- 
ciples of  this  verification  : — 


68 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


(i.)  A power  of  expreflion,  combined  with  har- 
mony pleafing  to  the  ear — 

“ And  praife  the  eafy  vigour  of  a line, 

Where  Denham’s  ftrength  and  Waller’s  fweetnefs  join.” 

(2.)  A nice  adaptation  of  the  found  to  the  thing 
lignified : — 

i(  JTis  not  enough  no  harfhnefs  gives  offence, 

The  found  muff  feem  an  echo  to  the  fenfe.” 

Thefe  principles  appear  to  contain  the  germ  of  much 
that  was  afterwards  written  on  the  fubjedt. 

Equal  importance  was  attached  to  poetic  didtion, 
that  is,  the  delicate  fele&ion  of  words,  which  were 
fuppofed  to  dilfinguifh  poetry  from  profe.  “ Before 
the  time  of  Dryden,”  fays  Dr.  Johnfon,  “this  delicacy 
of  feledfion  was  little  known  to  our  authors;  there  was 
no  poetical  didlion,  no  fyftem  of  words  at  once  refined 
from  the  groffnefs  of  domeftic  ufe,  and  free  from  the 
harfhnefs  of  technicality.’’ 

But  thefe  changes  of  verfification  and  didlion,  how- 
ever remarkable,  are  not  fufficient  to  account  for  the 
great  revolution  in  Englifh  literature.  We  mull  inquire 
further,  and  afk  what  was  the  prevailing  mode  of 
thought  with  regard  to  poetry  and  art.  We  fhall  pro- 
bably find  an  anfwer  in  “ Pope’s  Efiay  on  Criticifm.” 

Pope,  who  always  acknowledged  the  benefit  of  Dry- 
den’s  example,  was  juft  old  enough  to  remember  the 
poet.  When  quite  a youth  he  was  taken  to  Will’s 
coffee-houfe,  that  he  might  fee  the  great  man:  Fir- 
gilium  vidi  tantum — Virgil  I faw  and  that  was  all — 
as  he  fays,  quoting  the  words  of  Ovid.  At  the  early 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS. 


69 


age  of  twenty-one  he  wrote  his  “ Effay  on  Criticifni,” 
a didablic  poem,  which  exhibits  great  learning  and 
wonderful  difcrimination  for  fo  young  a man.  Nor 
was  he  unconfcious  of  his  own  merit : he  declared  that 
he  did  not  expebl  the  fale  of  hiselfay  to  be  rapid,  becaufe 
not  one  gentleman  in  fixty,  even  of  liberal  education, 
could  underftand  it. 

He  begins  by  exalting  the  critical  fpirit,  that  judg- 
ment, in  the  fine  arts,  then  called  <c  tafte,”  which  he 
places  almoft,  if  not  altogether,  on  a level  with  poetic 
genius : — 

<c  ’Tis  with  our  judgments  as  our  watches,  none 
Go  juft  alike,  yet  each  believes  his  own. 

In  poets,  as  true  genius  is  but  rare, 

True  tafte,  as  feldom,  is  the  critic’s  fhare: 

Both  muft  alike  from  heaven  derive  their  light, 

Thefe  born  to  judge,  as  well  as  thofe  to  write.” 

No  doubt  every  good  and  perfebl  gift  comes  from  God  : 
but  that  is  not  the  point  here.  It  had  been  cuftomary 
to  think  that  the  poetic  faculty  was  a peculiar  gift  of 
God,  a fort  of  inlpiration  or  “ enthufiafm,”  in  the 
Greek  fenfe  of  the  word  : and  here  Pope  contends  that 
the  critical  faculty  is  equally  fpecial  and  divine. 

Secondly,  he  places  the  Greek  and  Latin  clalfics  on 
a level  with  nature.  He  admits,  as  a general  principle, 
that  we  ought  to  follow  nature,  and  to  form  our  judg- 
ment by  her  ftandard  : but  then  he  fays  that  the  rules 
difcovered  by  the  ancients  are  nature  ftill,  though  in 
another  form  : — • 


“ Thofe  rules  of  old  difcovered,  not  devifed, 
Are  nature  ftill,  but  nature  methodifed.” 


70 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


Hence  it  fhould  be  our  care  to  ftudy  the  Greek  exem- 
plars, and  efpecially  the  poems  of  Homer.  For  Virgil, 
when  deigning  his  great  work,  feemed  at  iri  above 
the  critic’s  rules,  and  difdained  to  draw  from  any  other 
fource  than  Nature  herfelf: — 

u But  when  to  examine  every  part  he  came, 

Nature  and  Homer  were,  he  found,  the  fame  : 
Convinced,  amazed,  he  checks  the  bold  defign, 

And  rules  as  ftrid  his  laboured  work  confine, 

As  if  the  Stagirite  o’erlooked  each  line. 

Learn  hence  for  ancient  rules  a jufi:  efteem  : 

To  copy  Nature  is  to  copy  them.” 

This  opinion  was  quite  in  accordance  with  the  theory 
of  the  new  fchool,  that  while  Homer  was  the  greater 
genius,  Virgil  was  the  more  corred  writer,  and  more 
in  keeping  with  the  rules  of  Ariftotle. 

We  find  then  that  the  adherents  of  the  new  fchool 
confidered  tafte,  i.e,  corred  judgment  in  the  fine  arts, 
as  equal  to  poetic  genius,  and  that  they  took  the  ancient 
daffies  as  the  exponents  of  Nature  ; while  they  infilled 
flrongly  upon  regular  form  in  didion  and  verification. 

The  predominant  fpirit  of  the  age  was  not  enthufiafm 
or  deep  feeling,  but  intelledual  criticifm,  with  a ten- 
dency to  fatire  : fo  much  fo,  that  the  poets  themfelves 
afTumed  a correfponding  tone.  Sharp  refledion,  terfe- 
nefs,  and  epigrammatic  turns  were  highly  efleemed. 
Wit  was  proclaimed  king  in  literature,  and  took  the 
place  of  poetic  enthufiafm.  But  we  mull  not  confound 
wit  with  mere  jefting  or  joking : we  are  rather  to  un- 
derfland  the  operations  of  a keen  and  refined  intelled ; 
or,  as  Pope  fays, — 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS. 


7l 


t(  True  wit  is  Nature  to  advantage  drefTed, 

What  oft  was  thought  but  ne’er  fo  well  exprefled.” 

We  may  compare  the  wit  of  that  day  to  the  rapiers 
which  they  ufed.  In  the  old-fafhioned  method  of  fight- 
ing, with  large  fwords  and  fhields,  two  men  might  batter 
away  at  one  another  for  an  hour,  and  no  great  harm 
done ; but  with  the  rapier  all  was  quicknefs,  dexterity, 
and  point.  Similarly  in  writing  they  aimed  at  a terfe 
and  epigrammatic  ftyle,  with  frequent  ufe  of  antithefis. 
In  this  very  “ Efiay  on  Criticifm”  there  are  feveral  in- 
ftances,  which  have  pafied  into  proverbs : as,  “ To  err 
is  human;  to  forgive,  divine.  Again,  " For  fools  rufii 
in  where  angels  fear  to  tread  and  the  much  contefied 
maxim,  “ A little  learning  is  a dangerous  thing,”  often 
quoted,  “ A little  knowledge  is  a dangerous  thing,”  to 
which  Lord  Brougham  has  fometimes  replied,  that  “ A 
little  knowledge  is  better  than  great  ignorance.” 

Apart  from  dramatic  works  and  tranflations,  if  we 
review  the  poems  of  Dryden  and  Pope,  we  fhall  find 
that  the  chief  are  fatirical,  including  the  mock-heroic ; 
and  dida&ic,  including  argumentative  and  controverfial 
works.  Of  the  former  kind,  we  have  “Abfalom  and 
Achitophel,”and“  M‘Flecknoe,”  by  Dryden ; the“Dun- 
ciad,”  and  the  “ Rape  of  the  Lock,”  by  Pope ; of  the 
latter  defcription,  Dryden  has  given  us  the  “ Hind  and 
Panther,”  and  the  “ Religio  Laici;”  Pope,  the  “ Efiay 
on  Criticifm,”  and  the  “ Efiay  on  Man.”  In  vigorous 
fatire  Dryden  is  unfurpafled  ; his  power  of  reafoning  in 
verfe,  and  his  rhetorical  declamation,  have  been  praifed 
by  all  the  critics ; while  the  polifhed  edge  of  Pope’s 
fatire  has  been  equally  admired.  In  our  time  their 


72 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


claim  to  the  title  of  poets  has  been  queftioned,  becaufe 
they  fail  to  difplay  the  lofty  imagination  of  Shakefpeare 
and  Milton  ; but  all  admit  that  for  mental  vigour  and 
inteile&ual  power  they  rank  with  the  higheft  names  in 
our  literature. 

This  period  was  certainly  not  diftinguifhed  for  lyric 
poetry ; but  it  would  be  unjuft  not  to  mention  Dryden’s 
“ Ode  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day/’  commonly  known  as 
“ Alexander’s  Feaft.”  That  compofition  is  worthy  of  a 
diligent  ftudy : (i.)  For  its  graphic  or  even  dramatic 
power ; and  I would  remark  that  the  fcene,  which  is 
laid  at  Perfepolis,  will  bear  rich  illuftration  from  the 
travels  of  Sir  Robert  Ker  Porter,  and  the  difcoveries  of 
more  recent  explorers : (2.)  For  its  variety  of  rhythm 
and  metre,  upon  which  there  are  fome  valuable  obfer- 
vations  in  Dr.  Campbell's  “ Philofophy  of  Rhetoric,” 
towards  the  clofe : (3.)  And  above  all,  we  lhould  not 
negledt  the  mufic  which  Handel  afterwards  adapted  to 
the  words ; for  the  manner  in  which  that  great  com- 
pofer  has  phrafed  and  accented  the  paffages  is  admir- 
able, and  may  be  confulted  with  profit  by  the  poet  as 
well  as  by  the  mufician.  A careful  examination  of  the 
ode,  with  the  illuftrations  referred  to,  and  the  mufic, 
would  afford  gratification  of  a very  high  kind. 

In  confidering  Dryden  and  Pope  as  the  leaders  of  the 
neo-claflical  fchool,  we  muft  not  omit  their  poetical 
tranflations  from  the  claflics.  Previous  attempts  had 
varied  between  fervile  copying  and  exceffive  latitude. 
Ben  Jonfon  had  rendered  Horace  almoft  word  for 
word ; and  Cowley  had  fpread  his  wings  fo  boldly  as 
almoft  to  forfake  his  authors.  Waller  had  attempted 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS . 


73 


paraphrafe,  keeping  his  author  in  view,  but  afTuming  a 
certain  latitude;  and  Dryden,  improving  upon  Waller, 
aimed  at  a ftyle  which  was  not  fo  loofe  as  paraphrafe, 
yet  not  fo  clofe  as  a fervile  interpretation.  His  great 
work  was  the  tranflation  of  Virgil,  and  he  was  followed 
by  Pope  in  the  famous  tranflation  of  Homer. 

Pope’s  verfion  has  been  the  objed  of  extravagant 
praife  and  undeferved  cenfure.  His  admirers  faid  that 
future  ages  would  inquire  who  firft  turned  Homer  into 
Greek : his  opponents  retort  that  the  old  bard  appears, 
in  Pope’s  tranflation,  as  an  Englifh  gentleman  dreffed 
in  the  neweft  French  fafhion,  with  ruffles  and  periwig. 
Pope  is  reported  to  have  faid  that  Chapman’s  verfion 
was  fuch  as  Homer  might  have  written  when  a very- 
young  man  ; the  rejoinder  was,  that  Pope’s  verfion  was 
fuch  as  Homer  would  never  have  written  at  any  time. 

No  tranflation  will  fatisfy  the  fcholars ; they  will 
always  fay  that  it  falls  below  the  original ; but  then 
they  are  the  very  perfons  who  do  not  need  a tranfla- 
tion. The  objed  is  not  to  fatisfy  the  requirements  of 
exading  fcholars,  but  to  produce  a verfion  lufficiently 
clofe  for  the  public.  But  this  is  not  all.  A tranflation 
of  Homer  mufl  be  an  agreeable  poem,  otherwife 
the  public  will  not  read  it.  In  works  of  this  kind 
nothing  is  more  fatal  than  heavinefs  or  tedioufnefs,  a 
power,  fays  Dr.  Johnfon,  which  propagates  itfelf ; for 
he  that  is  weary  the  firft  hour  will  be  ftill  more  weary 
the  fecond,  and  will  foon  clofe  the  book  altogether.  In 
every  poem  the  reader  experts  to  be  pleafed,  and  if  he 
is  difappointed  in  this  expedition  he  is  rarely  tempted 
to  go  forward. 


74 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


Now,  it  is  allowed  that  Pope’s  verfion  makes  an 
agreeable  poem,  while  the  charms  of  other  verlions  are 
very  doubtful ; pra&ically  it  is  found  that  his  tranfla- 
tion  is  popular,  while  the  others  are  not.  Great  efforts 
have  been  made  of  late  years  to  bring  Chapman’s  ver- 
fion  into  notice,  but  fuccefs  has  not  correfponded  to  the 
effort ; and  Cowper’s  tranflation,  though  preferred  by 
fome  as  very  literal,  is  too  heavy  to  fuit  the  public  tafte. 
Therefore,  even  if  Pope’s  verfion  is  not  the  bell,  it  has 
the  advantage  over  others  which  are  hardly  read  at  all. 
It  is  undeniable  that  Pope’s  “ Iliad”  has  taken  a diftin- 
guifhed  place  in  Englifh  literature,  and  has  done  very 
much  to  diffufe  a claffical  tafte  among  the  public.  In 
this  fenfe  it  is  one  of  the  molt  important  produ&ions 
of  the  neo-clallical  fchool. 

The  faulty  fide  of  the  new  fchool  was  negleft  or 
confulion  of  imagery.  Thefe  lines  of  Dryden  were 
once  greatly  admired  : — 

“ All  things  are  hulhed,  as  Nature’s  felf  lay  dead  $ 

The  mountains  feem  to  nod  their  drowfy  head, 

The  little  birds  in  dreams  their  fongs  repeat,”  &c. 

On  which  Macaulay  remarks,  that  the  imitation  is 
quite  unlike  the  thing  imitated.  Addifon  has  this 
unfortunate  paffage 

“ I bridle  in  my  ftruggling  mufe  with  pain, 

That  longs  to  launch  into  a bolder  ftrain.” 

As  though  the  reining  in  of  a horfe  could  prevent  the 
launch  of  a boat.  Befides,  the  idea  of  corredlnefs  was 
mifconceived  ; if  it  means  conforming  to  found  princi- 
ples, it  may  be  only  another  name  for  excellence ; but, 
if  it  means  conformity  to  arbitrary  rules,  it  may  be 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS . 


75 


only  another  name  for  abfurdity.  The  errors  of  the 
fchool  are  moll  ealily  feen,  not  in  the  leaders  but  in 
the  imitators,  who,  forgetting  the  genius  of  Dryden 
and  Pope,  could  only  copy  their  manner,  juft  as  the 
admirers  of  Dr.  Johnfon  could  imitate  the  balance  of 
his  lentences,  but  took  care  not  to  follow  him  in  vigour 
of  thought  or  power  of  reafoning. 

From  the  time  of  Pope  the  critics  were  bufily  occu- 
pied in  drawing  up  arbitrary  laws  for  poetical  compo- 
fition,  many  of  which  were  utterly  unreafonable,  and 
would  have  been  difregarded  by  Pope  himfelf,  who, 
indeed,  often  violates  his  own  rules.  Thus  Rymer 
tells  us  that  Shakefpeare  ought  not  to  have  made  Othello 
black,  for  the  hero  of  a tragedy  ought  always  to  be 
white.  We  found  Dryden  faying  that  Milton  ought 
not  to  have  taken  Adam  for  his  hero,  becaufe  the  hero 
of  an  epic  poem  ought  always  to  be  vidtorious ; and 
another  critic  informs  us  that  Milton  fhould  not  have 
put  fo  many  fimiJes  into  his  firft  book,  becaufe  there  are 
no  fimiles  in  the  firft  book  of  the  “ Iliad. ’’  It  would 
be  endlefs  to  enumerate  the  minute  laws  eftablilhed  for 
heroic  rhyme  ; that  there  muft  be  a paufe,  a comma  at 
leaft,  at  the  end  of  every  couplet,  no  full-ftop  except  at 
the  end  of  a line,  with  other  regulations  of  a fimilar 
kind. 

All  the  critics  are  now  agreed  that  Englifh  poetry, 
during  the  middle  of  the  1 8th  century — fay  from  1740 
to  1760-80 — is  exceedingly  wearifome,  except  what  was 
written  by  Gray,  Thomfon,  and  Goldfmith  ; and  that 
the  firft  poet  who  did  much  to  bring  back  genuine 
feeling  and  a natural  ftyle  was  William  Cowper.  Sick- 


76 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


nefs  and  difappointment  have  given  a melancholy  tone 
to  much  of  his  poetry  ; but  there  was  nothing  of  ler- 
vility  in  Cowper.  We  fee  a mind  bowed  down,  nay, 
almolt  crulhed,  by  fevere  afflidtion,  yet  riling  again 
and  fpeaking  a free  word  in  the  caufe  of  rational 
liberty. 

With  regard  to  verliHcation,  Cowper,  diltindtly  com- 
plaining of  the  creamy  fmoothnefs  fo  much  admired  in 
his  day,  and  of  the  mere  mechanifm  to  which  poetry 
had  been  reduced,  afcribes  it  to  an  abufe  of  Pope’s 
example  : — 

“ But  he  (his  mufical  finefle  was  fuch, 

So  nice  his  ear,  fo  delicate  his  touch), 

Made  poetry  a mere  mechanic  art, 

And  every  warbler  had  his  tune  by  heart.” 

But  there  were  parts  of  the  kingdom  to  which  the 
laws  of  the  corredt  fchool  had  never  penetrated — the 
hills  of  Cumberland,  the  highlands  of  Scotland,  the 
mountains  and  glens  of  Ireland.  Romance  was  not 
utterly  extinguilhed,  but  the  firfh  reiteration  of  the 
romantic  mufe  was  under  a malk ; in  other  words,  a 
literary  impolture  of  the  molt  furprifing  kind  called 
general  attention  to  the  treafures  of  the  old  national 
poetry.  In  1760,  James  Macpherfon  publifhed  poetic 
fragments,  which  he  gave  out  as  tranllations  from  the 
Gaelic  of  the  fongs  of  Offian,  a Scottilh  bard  of  the 
fourth  century.  This  publication  excited  the  molt 
lively  interelt,  and  gave  rife  to  a learned  controverfy, 
in  which  numerous  elfays  appeared  for  and  againlt  the 
authenticity  of  thefe  poems.  Macpherfon’s  fingular 
behaviour  in  refufing  to  produce  his  originals  was  alone 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS . 


77 


fufficient  to  excite  fufpicion  ; and  further  inquiry  proved 
that  his  poems  were  a patch-work,  founded  on  tradi- 
tion, but  made  up  from  various  fources.  When  the 
illulion  was  difpelled,  there  was  a fpeedy  end  to  the 
extraordinary  admiration  which  the  poems  of  Ollian 
had  awakened  in  England,  Germany,  and  even  in 
France  and  Italy.  As  long  as  die  halo  of  antiquity 
furrounded  them  they  were  extravagantly  worfhipped  ; 
but  when  it  appeared  that  the  compofition  was  recent, 
no  criticifm  was  too  fevere.  On  the  whole,  how- 
ever, Macpherfon  did  good  ; he  gave  prominence  to  the 
fa£l  that  Gaelic  traditions  were  current  in  Scotland, 
and  we  have  lince  learned  that  interefting  poems, 
oral  and  manufcript,  exilt  in  Ireland.  We  have  feen 
only  the  beginning  of  Celtic  ftudies ; the  Germans  are 
now  working  indefatigably  at  both  Gaelic  and  Cymric ; 
and  there  is  every  probability  that  European  fcholars 
will  turn  their  energies  in  this  direction.  I lincerely 
trull  that  Ireland  will  take  a foremoft  pofition  in  this 
inquiry,  as  upon  fuch  a fubjedl  Ihe  clearly  ought 
to  do. 

Greater  effedl  was  produced  by  Bilhop  Percy’s 
“ Reliques  of  Ancient  Englifh  Poetry,”  a work  re- 
lulting  from  a careful  invelligation  of  the  old  ballads. 
This  colle&ion  of  the  ancient  minllrelfy  tended  to  pro- 
duce an  imprellion  that  the  elfence  of  poetry  did  not 
confill  in  dry  formality,  but  that  much  more  was 
requilite. 

The  ballad  poetry.  Hill  dear  to  the  hearts  of  the 
people,  and  full  of  national  traditions  from  heroic  times, 
flourifhed  between  the  fourteenth  and  fixteenth  centu- 


78 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


ries.  The  oldefl  ballads  turn  upon  the  contefts  be- 
tween the  Saxons  and  the  Danes,  as  “ Havelock  the 
Dane,”  “ King  Horn,”  and  “ Guy  of  Warwick  then 
we  have  the  fongs  of  the  Border  Wars  between  Eng- 
land and  Scotland,  as  “ Chevy  Chafe  ” and  the  “ Battle 
of  Otterbourne and  laftly,  the  moft  popular  of  all, 
the  ballads  of  Robin  Hood,  the  forefler  bold,  who 
was  cherifhed  by  the  Englifh  people  as  a champion 
again!!  the  tyranny  of  Norman  feudalifm  ; even  yet  his 
name  awakens  a fympathy  in  the  hearts  of  the  com- 
mons. Altogether  the  poetic  value  of  the  minftrelfy  is 
very  great,  and  its  influence  upon  Englifh  literature  is 
undoubted. 

But  thofe  who  were  accuflomed  to  the  elegance  of 
the  clafical  fchool,  could  not  tolerate  the  harfh  verifi- 
cation of  the  old  ballads.  One  evening,  at  Mrs.  Thrale's, 
Dr.  Johnfon  condemned  them  in  fevere  terms  : he 
maintained  that  fuch  efFufions  were  worthlefs,  and  to 
prove  that  fuch  rhymes  could  be  produced  without 
any  effort,  he  began  : — 

“ I put  my  hat  upon  my  head, 

And  walk’d  into  the  Strand, 

And  there  I met  another  man, 

Whofe  hat  was  in  his  hand.” 

And  fo  he  went  on  extemporizing  nonfenfe  verfes  for 
feveral  ftanzas,  to  fhow  how  eafy  it  was. 

Of  courfe  the  verification  is  rude.  But  the  ballads 
were  read  in  a different  fpirit  by  a boy  in  Scotland. 
At  the  age  of  thirteen,  Walter  Scott  read  “ Percy’s  Re- 
liques,”  at  Kelfo  on  the  Border,  within  fight  of  the 
Cheviots,  near  the  river  Tweed,  nor  far  from  Melrofe. 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS. 


79 


At  the  age  of  thirty-one  (in  the  year  1802)  he  pub- 
lifhed  the  Minftrelfy  of  the  Scottifh  Border/’  the  re- 
fult  of  his  labours  in  that  haunt  of  the  national  ballad- 
poetry.  Thefe  fongs,  taken  down  from  the  lips  of  the 
people,  and  edited  with  valuable  remarks,  formed  as  it 
were  a fupplement  to  “ Percy’s  Reliques ; ” but  dis- 
playing wild  energy,  intenfe  nationality,  and  that  won- 
derful depth  of  paffion,  to  which  the  Scot  gives  utterance, 
when  he  expreffes  his  enthufiaftic  love  of  home. 

From  1805  to  1814,  Walter  Scott  wrote  metrical 
romances,  of  an  epic  chara&er,  but  with  much  of  the 
ballad  in  them.  In  the  “ Lay  of  the  Laft  Minftrel  ” he 
reftored  the  legendary,  in  his  “Marmion  ” the  hiftorical, 
romance.  But  the  greateft  triumph  of  the  romantic 
epos  was  his  “ Lady  of  the  Lake,”  where  the  harp  of 
the  North  refounded  amid  the  fcenery  of  the  Highlands, 
and  attracted  the  civilifed  world  to  the  mountains  and 
heaths  of  Scotland. 

Soon  afterwards  he  began  to  write  his  romances  in 
profe,  and  we  may  regard  him  as  the  founder  of  the 
modern  hiftorical  romance.  He  was  the  fir  ft,  among 
the  moderns,  who  exhibited  in  its  full  power  the  pic- 
turefque  fide  of  hiftoric  narrative  ; and  he  has  the  merit 
of  pointing  out  the  diftindlion  of  races  as  an  element  in 
hiftory.  In  his  “ Ivanhoe  ” he  brings  out  the  differences 
between  Saxon  and  Norman,  tracing  the  refults  of  thofe 
differences,  and  leading  to  conclufions  which  many 
profeffed  hiflorians  have  entirely  overlooked.  Ample 
juftice  has  been  done  to  his  hiftorical  merit  by  Auguftin 
Thierry,  the  celebrated  author  of  the  “ Conqueft  of 
England  by  the  Normans;”  and  on  the  important  ules 


8o 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


of  the  imagination  in  the  ftudy  of  hiftory,  I would  refer 
you  to  Archbifhop  Whately’s  “ Rhetoric,”  part  ii. 
chap.  2. 

Both  in  poetry  and  profe,  Scott  is  remarkable  for 
vivid  defcription — for  the  power  of  “ bringing  before 
the  eye s.”  To  fome  minds,  his  figures  and  fcenes  are 
fo  palpable  that  they  might  almoft  be  touched.  For 
example,  in  the  “ Legend  of  Montrofe,”  we  have  the 
chieftain’s  banquet,  where  a clanfman  hands  behind 
each  chair,  holding  in  his  right  hand  a drawn  fword 
with  the  point  turned  downwards,  and  a blazing  pine- 
torch  in  the  left ; fo  the  interview  between  Louis  XI. 
and  Charles  the  Bold  in  “Quentin  Durward;”  the 
tournament  in  “ Ivanhoe,”  or  the  fcene  where  Rebecca 
defcribes  to  the  wounded  Ivanhoe  the  conteft  raging  at 
the  cattle  gate.  So,  too,  the  battle-fcene  in  “ Mar- 
mion;”  and  as  for  the  “Lady  of  the  Lake,”  fome  of 
the  annual  vifitors  to  Loch  Katrine  make  the  minutett 
inquiries  about  the  ifland,  and  the  refidence  of  Ellen 
Douglas,  in  a manner  which  refleds  the  higheft  credit 
upon  their  imaginative  powers,  though  not  fo  much 
upon  their  judgment.  He  is  equally  fuccefsful  in  land- 
fcape,  prefenting  to  us  not  merely  the  outward  fcenery, 
but  the  air  and  fpirit,  the  very  genius  of  the  place. 

We  cannot  fail  to  remark  his  nationality  and  deter- 
mined patriotifm.  It  has  fometimes  been  afferted  that 
patriotifm  is  the  laft  refuge  of  a fcoundrel ; but  this  is, 
in  reality,  a tribute  to  its  excellence.  For  a fcoundrel, 
in  aiTuming  the  cloak,  fancies  that  patriotifm,  like  cha- 
rity, will  cover  a multitude  of  fins.  The  abufe  is  no 
argument  againft  the  thing  itfelf.  Sir  Walter  Scott 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS . 81 

fligmatizes  the  man  who  is  even  cold  or  indifferent  to- 
ward his  native  land : he  fays  that  fuch  a man — 

u Living,  fhall  forfeit  fair  renown, 

And,  doubly  dying,  (hall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dull  from  whence  he  fprung, 

Unwept,  unhonour’d,  and  unfung.” 

On  thefe  principles.  Sir  Walter  confidered  the  min- 
ftrelfy  and  the  old  legends  as  a moft  valuable  element 
in  the  mediaeval  hiftory  of  the  country,  as  reflecting 
the  national  fpirit : and  he  always  loved  to  dwell  upon 
the  heroic  deeds  of  his  fathers.  He  never  wavered, 
never  flinched  in  his  patriotic  devotion ; he  was  a true 
fon  of  Scotland,  and  there  is  no  writer  to  whom  fhe 
owes  a greater  debt  of  gratitude. 

But  though  Scott  laboured  fo  effectually  in  reftoring 
mediaeval  romance,  he  never  placed  himfelf  in  anta- 
gonifm  to  the  neo-claflical  fchool : nay,  he  edited,  in 
a very  genial  fpirit,  the  works  of  Dryden,  whom  he 
often  calls  “ glorious  old  John.”  DireCt  oppofition  to 
the  “ correCt  ” fchool  was  inftituted  by  William  Wordf- 
worth. 

In  1798  he  publifhed  the  firft,  and  in  1800  a fecond 
edition  of  “Lyrical  Ballads,”  with  a preface  con- 
demning the  poetic  diCtion  which  had  fo  long  been 
admired,  and  recommending  the  language  of  aCtual  life. 
The  principal  objeCt  in  thefe  poems  was,  to  choofe  in- 
cidents and  fltuations  from  common  life,  and  to  defcribe 
them  in  a feleCtion  of  language  really  ufed  by  men  : 
at  the  fame  time  to  throw  over  them  a certain  colouring 
of  imagination,  whereby  ordinary  things  fhould  be  pre- 
fented  to  the  mind  in  an  unufual  afpeCt.  He  complains 


G 


8z 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


of  the  ignorance  difplayed  in  treating  of  the  mod  ob- 
vious natural  appearances,  as  in  Dryden’s  verfes  de- 
fcriptive  of  night,  where  the  “ mountains  nod  their 
drowly  heads,”  and  in  Pope’s  moonlight  fcene  in  the 
eighth  book  of  the  Iliad.  He  confiders  Dryden’s  lines 
bombaftic  and  fenfelefs ; Pope's  falfe  and  contradidlory. 
The  verfes  of  Dryden,  he  adds,  once  highly  celebrated, 
are  forgotten  : thofe  of  Pope  ftill  retain  their  hold  upon 
public  eftimation,  and  are  often  recited  without  a fuf- 
picion  of  their  ablurdity. 

But  Wordfworth  was  not  content  with  attacking  the 
conventionality  of  the  pall  age:  he  feemed  to  go  out  of 
his  way  for  the  purpofe  of  introducing  mean  or  trivial 
language,  and  of  lhowing  that  the  phrafes  of  common 
life,  pure  and  fimple,  are  fuitable  for  poetry.  Befides 
this,  the  dogmatic  tone  affumed  in  his  preface,  gave 
even  greater  offence  than  his  verfes. 

The  Edinburgh  Reviewers  w^ere  loud  in  their  con- 
demnation. “ This  will  never  do,”  faid  Jeffrey.  Lord 
Byron,  who  was  a devoted  admirer  of  Pope,  fet  no 
limits  to  his  farcafm ; in  his  “ Englifh  Bards  and 
Scotch  Reviewers,”  he  calls  Wordfworth  a writer, 

“ Who,  both  by  precept  and  example,  ihows 
That  profe  is  verfe,  and  verfe  is  merely  profe.” 

Elfe where,  in  allufion  to  the  trivial  fubjedts  in  which 
Wordfworth  feemed  to  delight,  he  exclaims, 

“ ( Pedlars,*  and  ( boats,’  and  ( waggons  ! ’ Oh,  ye  lhades 
Of  Pope  and  Dryden  ! are  we  come  to  this  ? 
***** 

The  ‘little  boatman,’  and  his  ‘ Peter  Bell,’ 

Can  fneer  at  him  who  drew  Achitophel.” 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS. 


83 


If  Wordfworth  had  confined  his  attack  to  the  abufe 
of  conventional  language,  he  would  have  carried  con- 
viction much  fooner.  We  have  feen  that  Covvper  com- 
plained of  the  mechanical  verfification  which  was  in 
fafhion ; and  it  had  been  carried  fo  far  that  natural  ob- 
jects were  almolt  invariably  mentioned  either  by  a cir- 
cumlocution, or  by  a mythological  reference  : the  fun 
was  “ Phoebus,”  or  “ the  orb  of  day  the  moon  was 
“ Cynthia,”  the  “ refulgent  lamp  of  night.”  It  was 
eafy  for  a poetafter  to  fit  in  his  chamber,  ftringing 
phrafes  and  rhymes  together,  without  giving  any  picture 
of  the  things  defcribed.  Nay,  Pope  himfelf  had  already 
condemned  writers  of  this  clafs 

“ While  they  ring  round  the  fame  unvaried  chimes, 

With  fare  returns  of  itill  expected  rhymes : 

Where’er  you  find  6 the  cooling  weftern  breeze,’ 

In  the  next  line  ‘ it  whifpers  through  the  trees 
If  cryftal  ftreams  £ with  pleating  murmurs  creep,* 

The  reader’s  threatened,  not  in  vain,  with  ‘ lleep.’ 

Then  at  the  laft  and  only  couplet  fraught 
With  fome  unmeaning  thing  they  call  a thought, 

A needlefs  Alexandrine  ends  the  fong, 

That,  like  a wounded  fnake,  drags  its  flow  length  along.” 

The  cautions  of  Wordfworth  were  eminently  needed 
at  the  time,  but  he  carried  his  theory  to  an  extreme. 
His  own  friend,  Coleridge,  objeCled  to  the  infipidity 
and  childifhnefs  into  which  he  often  fell ; and,  on  the 
other  hand,  proved  that  fome  of  his  fineit  paflages  were 
in  direCt  contradiction  to  his  own  theory,  becaufe  not 
even  the  molt  violent  conftruCtion  could  reconcile  them 
with  the  language  of  common  life.  Similarly  De  Quincey 
has  fhown  that  much  of  Pope’s  poetry  is  in  violation 


84 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


of  rules  which  he  himfelf  laid  down  ; and  we  may 
conclude  that,  in  each  cafe,  the  pradtice  of  the  poet  was 
better  than  his  own  dogmatic  theory. 

In  another  of  his  reforms,  Wordsworth  was  more 
happy ; he  poflefled  great  love  for  external  nature,  and 
fpent  much  of  his  time  in  the  open  air.  To  ufe  a 
familiar  illuftration,  he  led  poetry  out  of  the  drawing- 
room, and  invited  her  to  take  an  excurfion  among  the 
hills  of  Cumberland.  In  directing  the  minds  of  men 
to  ftudy  nature,  he  touched  one  of  the  great  defedts  of 
our  artificial  life.  We  ftudy  aftronomy  from  books, 
but  we  forget  to  regard  the  heavens ; we  can  tell  the 
name  of  a beech-tree  in  feveral  languages,  and  can 
quote  paftoral  poetry  about  it  from  Virgil  downwards, 
without  being  able  to  point  out  the  tree  itfelf  in  its 
native  foreft.  In  thefe  refpedls  the  botanifts  and  other 
ftudents  of  natural  fcience  pofiefs  a marked  advantage, 
often  exhibiting  a healthy  and  enviable  frefhnefs  of 
thought.  Now,  Wordfworth  did  great  fervice  in 
Ihowing  that  poetical  ftudents  may  enjoy  the  fame,  or 
even  higher  privileges  ; for  while  they  find  equal  fcope 
for  their  powers  of  obfervation,  they  may  cultivate 
deeper  fympathy  with  nature,  and  obtain  a fpiritual 
infight  reaching  below  the  furface  of  things.  It  does 
not  fall  within  the  defign  of  this  ledture  to  confider  the 
philofophical  afpedt  of  Wordfworth’s  poetry  ; that  is  a 
queftion  better  left  to  the  metaphyficians ; it  may  fufiice 
to  fay  here  that  his  example  tended  to  found  what  we 
may  call  a “ natural  fchool”  in  poetry.  But  here,  too, 
fome  of  the  imitators  have  gone  to  extremes  by  an  ex- 
cels of  minute  defcription,  and  by  dwelling  too  exclu- 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS. 


85 


fively  upon  the  vegetable  creation  ; juft  as  in  Tome 
inferior  pictures  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite  fchool,  we  ob- 
ferve  great  elaboration  of  unnecefiary  detail,  and  a 
remarkable  abfence  of  anything  like  human  intereft. 

But  we  have  to  inquire  how  Wordfworth  ftands 
related  to  the  romantic  fchool  of  literature.  He  not 
only  had  a great  kindness  for  that  houfe,  but  in  early 
life  he  coquetted  with  the  romantic  mufe,  as  in  the 
“ Armenian  Lady’s  Love,”  partly  in  imitation  of  the 
“ Spanifh  Lady’s  Love,”  a ballad  in  Percy’s  “ Reliques,” 
and  the  “ Priorefs’s  Tale,”  after  Chaucer.  In  later  years 
he  cultivated  a more  extenfive  acquaintance  in  the 
“ White  Doe  of  Rylftone.” 

But  there  is  one  department  of  poetry  in  which  we 
may  fairly  claim  him,  that  is,  the  fonnet.  We  muft 
remember  that  the  ode  is  claflical,  but  the  fonnet  is 
mediaeval,  and  was  firft  introduced  into  Italian  litera- 
ture by  Petrarch,  who  borrowed  it  from  the  Sicilians. 
“ Scorn  not  the  fonnet,”  (fays  Wordfworth,) — 

££  with  this  key 
Shakefpeare  unlocked  his  heart : 

and  when  a damp 

Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  Thing  became  a trumpet,  whence  he  blew 
Soul-animating  ftrains — alas,  too  few  ! ” 

It  feems  fingular  that  Wordfworth,  who  began  by 
making  war  upon  form,  fhould  have  chofen  the  fonnet, 
which  is  one  of  the  ftridteit  forms  of  metrical  compo- 
fition.  This  bed  of  Procruftes,  as  an  Italian  has  termed 
it,  confines  the  poet’s  thoughts  within  the  ftated  fpace 
of  fourteen  verfes ; fo  that  if  the  thought  be  too  long. 


86 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


it  muft  be  comprefted  within  this  fpace,  or,  if  too 
fhort,  it  muft  be  ftretched  out  to  fill  the  meafure ; 
while  there  are  fixed  rules  for  the  alternation,  or  rather 
complication  of  the  rhymes. 

He  wrote  two  feries  of  mifcellaneous  lonnets,  two 
feries  dedicated  to  Liberty,  and  Ecclefiaftical  fonnets  on 
the  Church  Hiftory  of  Britain.  In  the  mifcellaneous 
colle&ion  are  three  remarkable  fonnets  tranflated  from 
the  Italian  of  Michael  Angelo.  The  poet  afterts  that 
true  love  does  not  depend  on  outward  forms,  but  is  a 
deeper  principle,  which  hallows  and  makes  pure  all 
gentle  hearts : — 

iC  His  hope  is  treacherous  only  whofe  love  dies 
With  beauty,  which  is  varying  every  hour  ; 

But  in  chafte  hearts  uninfluenced  by  the  power 
Of  outward  change,  there  blooms  a deathlefs  flower 
That  breathes  on  earth  the  air  of  paradife.” 

And  fo  in  the  fecond  fonnet  from  the  fame  original : 

Ci  The  wife  man,  I affirm,  can  find  no  reft 
In  that  which  periffies:  nor  will  he  lend 
His  heart  to  aught  which  doth  on  time  depend  : 

’Tis  fenfe,  unbridled  will,  and  not  true  love, 

That  kills  the  foul  : love  betters  what  is  beft 
Even  here  below  : but  more  in  heaven  above.” 

The  third  fonnet,  addrefted  to  the  Supreme  Being, 
deferves  careful  ftudy  and  reflexion. 

The  fonnets  to  liberty,  written  during  the  ftruggles 
of  the  French  War,  breathe  a patriotic  fpirit,  and  fhow 
the  workings  of  a mind  originally  filled  with  admira- 
tion for  the  French  Republic,  then  feeing  the  faireft 
hopes  deftroyed,  but  yet  remaining  true  to  the  caufe  of 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS . 


87 


freedom.  One  of  thefe,  addreffed  to  Milton,  poflefles 
a literary  as  well  as  a political  intereft;  its  date  is  London, 
1802  : — 

<£  Milton  ! thou  Ihouldft  be  living  at  this  hour  : 

England  hath  need  of  thee:  . . . 

. . . We  are  lelfifh  men  5 

Oh  ! raife  us  up,  return  to  us  again, 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  foul  was  like  a ftar,  and  dwelt  apart : 

Thou  hadft  a voice  whofe  found  was  like  the  fea. 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majeftic,  free, 

So  didft  thou  travel  on  life’s  common  way 
In  cheerful  g^odlinefs  : and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowlieft  duties  on  herfelf  did  lay.” 

Thus  we  have  paffed  from  the  romantic  fchool  of  the 
middle  ages,  through  the  revived  claflical,  on  to  the  new 
romantic.  It  would  seem  as  though,  during  the  laft 
thirty  or  forty  years,  we  have  entered  upon  a phafe  of 
revived  mediaevalifm.  The  period  from  1760  to  1820 
was  a tranfition  hate,  chequered  by  the  events  of  the 
American  War  and  the  French  Revolution  ; but,  from 
1820  to  the  prefent  time,  there  has  been  a manifeft 
tendency  to  dwell  upon  the  hiftory,  literature,  and 
art  of  the  middle  ages.  The  names  of  Hallam, 
Guizot,  and  Thierry  in  h iftory  ; of  Scott,  Coleridge, 
Schiller,  and  Schlegel  in  literature,  will  juftify  the  afier- 
tion  that  fimilar  tendencies  have  prevailed  at  home  and 
upon  the  Continent.  The  fame  influence  may  be  feen 
in  the  arts  : the  churches  and  chapels  ere&ed  from 
fifty  to  a hundred  years  ago  made  no  great  pretenfions 
to  ornament ; but  during  the  laft  thirty  years  numerous 
ecclefiaftical  ftrudlures  have  been  eredled  in  various 


88 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


ftyles  of  Gothic  architecture  ; and  we  might  venture  to 
fay  that  more  Gothic  churches  have  been  built  within 
our  own  memory  than  during  the  previous  two  hun- 
dred years. 

In  painting,  if  the  term  Pre-Raphaelite  has  any 
meaning,  it  fignifies  a recurrence  to  the  principles  of 
art  obferved  in  the  lchools  before  the  time  of  Raphael, 
who  lived  1483-1520.  Now  Raphael  flourifhed  during 
the  period  of  the  renaifiance  or  revival  in  art,  which 
correfponds  to  the  revival  of  clafilcal  ftudies  in  litera- 
ture ; and  we  may  infer  that  the  ftyle  of  art,  which 
preceded  the  renaifiance,  partook  more  or  lefs  of  medi- 
aeval ideas.  An  examination  of  the  early  pictures  will 
confirm  this  impreffion.  That  an  acquaintance  with 
mediaeval  art  has  become  popular  is  clear  from  the  faCt 
that  the  names  of  Giotto,  Fra  Angelico,  Van  Eyck, 
and  Quentin  Matfys  are  much  better  known  than  for- 
merly. In  the  Royal  Inflitution  at  Liverpool  there  is 
a fmall,  but  very  choice  collection  of  early  paintings ; 
and  when  they  were  firft  thrown  open,  people  looked 
at  them,  wondering  why  any  perfons  fhould  take  the 
trouble  to  bring  together  fuch  very  ftrange  pictures. 
But  now,  the  ufe  of  that  collection,  as  illuftrating  the 
hiftory  of  art,  is  better  underftood  by  the  public. 

We  cannot  go  far  wrong  in  faying  that  there  is  an 
analogy  between  the  Pre-Raphaelite  fchool  of  painting, 
and  the  romantic  fchool  of  poetry ; but  we  can  hardly 
aflert  that  the  painters,  in  their  attempts  at  reform,  have 
been  equally  fuccefsful  with  their  brethren  in  literature. 
The  poets  have  done  more  with  the  pen,  than  the 
painters  have  done  with  the  pencil. 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS. 


89 


In  other  departments  we  may  trace  manifeftations  of 
the  fame  tendency.  Within  our  memory,  ardent  young 
men,  very  far  gone  in  mediaeval  enthufiafm,  wifhed  to 
revive  the  myfteries  and  miracle  plays  of  the  middle 
ages.  Imaginative  minds,  charmed  with  the  piCturefque, 
attempted  to  reftore  the  forms  of  a pail  age,  and  were 
fometimes  carried  further  than  they  originally  intended 
to  go.  But  quaint  old  Thomas  Fuller  fhrewdly  re- 
marks of  the  true  church  antiquary,  that  “ He  baits  at 
middle  antiquity,  but  lodges  not  till  he  comes  at  that 
which  is  ancient  indeed.”  There  is  always  rifk  of  error 
if  we  are  fatisfied  with  partial  views,  and  Hop  half-way ; 
for  in  dealing  with  any  fubjeCt,  we  ought  to  obtain  a 
view  of  the  whole.  So  in  literature,  while  we  are 
grateful  to  Coleridge  and  others,  who  have  taught  us 
how  to  think,  and  what  to  think  about  old  romance, 
we  ought  not  to  reft  there ; but  we  fhould  compare 
mediaeval  literature  and  art  with  the  clafiical  and  the 
antique,  in  order  to  determine  the  merits  and  defeCls 
of  each. 

On  the  prefent  occafion,  we  have  confidered  two  of 
the  great  fchools,  but  we  ought,  in  like  manner,  to 
review  the  various  departments  of  literature.  It  would 
be  well,  alfo,  to  compare  the  different  fchools  of 
painters,  architects,  and  muficians,  with  a view  of  dif- 
covering  analogies,  and  contrafting  one  kind  of  art  with 
another.  Without  an  extended  inveftigation  of  this 
kind,  it  is  impolfible  to  arrive  at  final  conclufions; 
but,  from  what  we  have  feen,  wre  may  draw  one  or 
two  practical  inferences. 

Firft,  we  fhould  beware  of  being  carried  away  by 


9° 


THE  CLASSICAL  AND 


any  one  fchool.  We  are  efpecially  in  danger  of  this  if 
we  live  at  a time  when  new  doctrines  are  promulgated  ; 
for  when  difcoveries  are  made,  and  new  lights  are  in- 
troduced, we  are  apt  to  be  dazzled,  and  to  imagine 
that  what  went  before  was  all  wrong  or  foolifh.  Thus, 
at  the  revival  of  learning,  unmerited  contempt  was 
poured  upon  mediaeval  literature  ; fo,  too,  Addifon  was 
unjuft  in  his  cenfure  of  Gothic  architecture.  But,  in 
turn,  Dryden  and  Pope  have  been  treated  too  feverely 
by  the  followers  of  Wordfworth.  About  twenty  years 
ago,  by  very  young  men,  Pope  and  Addifon  were 
fcouted  as  mere  dilettanti ; it  was  fuppofed  that  they 
never  looked  below  the  furface,  that  they  had  no  afpi- 
rations  after  the  infinite,  as  the  phrafe  was  ; fo  that 
when  the  queftion  was  difcufted  “ Whether  Pope  was 
a poet,”  it  was  generally  carried  in  the  negative  by  a 
large  majority.  Of  late,  this  judgment  has  been  confi- 
derably  modified. 

Secondly,  we  may  fay  that  every  great  fchool  has 
fome  good  in  it.  The  romantic  is  characterized  by 
enthufiafm  and  graphic  power ; the  clafiical  by  regu- 
larity and  dignified  repofe.  Charmed  by  the  former, 
we  were  almoll  led  to  undervalue  the  clafiical  element; 
but  here,  too,  there  has  been  a reaction.  Though 
verbal  fcholarfhip  and  critical  accuracy  are  moft  im- 
portant in  their  proper  places,  and  form  the  ground- 
work of  all  true  fcholarfhip,  yet  we  fhould  go  forward 
to  take  an  aefthetic  view  of  clafiical  antiquity. 

Hence,  great  fervice  has  been  rendered  by  thofe  who 
have  illuftrated  the  claftics  from  the  monuments  of  an- 
cient art.  Some  years  ago.  Dr.  Chriftopher  Wordf- 


ROMANTIC  SCHOOLS . 


91 


worth  publifhed  his  valuable  work  upon  Greece ; and 
Dr.  William  Smith,  in  editing  his  claffical  dictionaries, 
has  obtained  copious  illuftrations  from  the  fculptures, 
monuments,  and  coins.  An  excellent  treatife  on  Greek 
art,  by  Mr.  Scharf,  is  prefixed  to  a new  edition  of 
“ Wordfworth’s  Greece  ; ” and  the  defigns  for  Dean 
Milman’s  Horace,  by  the  fame  gentleman,  deferve  men- 
tion. Mr.  Falkener,  in  his  work  entitled  “Daedalus,” 
has  difcuffed  the  advantages  which  may  be  derived  from 
a ftudy  of  the  antique.  If  thefe  purfuits  are  continued, 
they  may  eventually  a6l  upon  our  popular  literature,  and 
not  without  good  effect.  For,  in  Greek  art,  as  in  the 
claffical  authors,  there  is  a certain  power  of  control. 
For  example,  in  the  Laocoon,  we  have  a reprefentation 
of  intenfe  agony,  yet  not  carried  to  the  point  of 
abandonment : and  fo  in  every  work  of  art  there  fhould 
be  a due  amount  of  referve  and  dignity.  Conftant 
complaints  are  made  that  our  modern  literature  is  too 
fpafmodic  and  fenfational  : perhaps  claffical  training 
would  adminifter  the  very  fort  of  corre&ion  that  is 
wanted. 

Thirdly,  we  may  certainly  affirm,  that  each  fchool 
has  its  weak  fide.  As,  in  manners,  the  ftately  perfon 
is  fometimes  too  formal,  while  the  man  of  warm  temper 
may  be  too  familiar ; fo  writers,  who  cultivate  a claffi- 
cal tafte,  often  fall  into  conventionality  or  fliffnefs  ; 
while  thofe  of  the  romantic  group  are  fometimes 
chargeable  with  irregularity  in  thought  or  fentiment. 
Our  judgment  fhould  feek  the  middle  path,  between 
wild  extravagance  of  feeling  upon  the  one  hand,  and 
cold  formality  upon  the  other ; and  if  I may  hazard  a 


92 


CLASSICAL  SCHOOLS. 


conjecture  about  the  future,  I think  that  our  literature, 
true  to  its  national  traditions,  will  remain  eflentially 
romantic ; yet  that  the  claffical  element  will  be  duly 
cultivated,  not  as  a fubftitute,  but  as  a regulating  and 
controlling  power. 


SHAKESPEARE 


BY  JOHN  K.  INGRAM,  LL.D. 

FELLOW  OF  TRINITY  COLLEGE,  AND  PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH 
LITERATURE  IN  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  DUBLIN. 


r 


SHAKESPEARE. 

HE  author  of  the  thoughtful  difcourfe  on 
the  life  and  writings  of  John  Fofter  begins 
by  obferving  that  fome  perfons  would  pro- 
bably confider  him  to  have  feleded  his 
fubjed  injudicioufly,  becaufe  the  name  of  John  Folter 
was  not  one  of  general  notoriety,  nor  his  rank  in  Eng- 
lifh  literature  a very  high  one.  I can  well  believe  that 
my  own  choice  may  have  been  criticifed  for  exadly  the 
oppohte  reafon.  There  are  doubtlefs  few,  if  any,  in 
the  audience  I addrefs,  who  are  not  well  acquainted 
with  the  principal  works  of  Shakefpeare,  who  have  not 
admired  their  poetic  beauties,  felt  their  power  and 
pathos,  and  reflected  on  their  moral  fignihcance.  And 
fo  much  has  he  been  the  theme  of  our  whole  critical 
literature— fo  many  gifted  writers  have  taken  him  for 
the  text  of  their  aefthetic  difquifitions — that  juft  fyftema- 
tic  views  of  his  genius  and  dramatic  art  have  become 
more  or  lefs  familiar  to  all  educated  minds.  Is  it  likely 
that  I fhall  be  able  to  prefent  in  any  new  light  the 
great  fubjed  I have  feleded  ? Is  it  Hill  poffible  to  offer 
any  novel,  or  at  leaffc  unhackneyed  confiderations. 


SHAKESPEARE . 


96 

which  may  interefl  even  thofe  who  have  been  habitual 
readers  of  the  great  poet,  and  may  fend  them  back  to 
the  ftudy  of  his  works  with  frefh  zeft  and  with  topics 
of  inquiry  worth  their  pains  in  profecuting? 

Let  me  anfwer  this  queftion  in  the  words  of  Profeffor 
Craik,  one  of  the  moft  diftinguifhed  Shakefpearean 
fcholars  of  our  time.  “ After  all  the  commentatorfhip 
and  criticifm,”  he  fays,  “ of  which  the  works  of  Shake- 
fpeare  have  been  the  fubjedl,  they  ftill  remain  to  be 
ftudied  in  their  totality  with  a fpecial  reference  to 
Shakefpeare  himfelf.  The  man  Shakefpeare  as  read  in 
his  works — Shakefpeare  as  there  revealed,  not  only  in 
his  genius  and  intellectual  powers,  but  in  his  character, 
difpofition,  temper,  opinions,  taftes,  prejudices,  is  a book 
yet  to  be  written.”  The  fentences  I have  juft  read  I 
wifh  you  to  regard  as  furnifhing  the  key-note  of  what  I 
am  now  to  fay.  I am  far  indeed  from  fuppofing  myfelf 
competent  to  handle  adequately  the  great  fubject  thus 
Iketched  out.  And  to  dofo,  as  it  would  be  beyond  my 
ability,  fo  alfo  would  require  much  more  time  than  is 
now  at  my  difpofal.  In  the  remarks  I have  to  offer  to 
you,  I fhall  deal  only  with  one  or  two  afpects  of  the 
problem.  Placing  myfelf  at  the  point  of  view  indicated 
by  Mr.  Craik,  I fhall  endeavour  to  throw  fome  light, 
JirJly  on  the  development  of  Shakefpeare’s  genius  in  the 
progrels  of  his  poetic  career  ; and ,fecondly,  on  a few  of 
the  leading  features  of  his  mental  and  moral  nature, 
his  turn  of  thought,  and  his  general  views  of  life,  as 
they  are,  more  or  lefs  diftinctly,  revealed  to  us  in  his 
works. 

In  undertaking  this  talk,  I am  not  thrown  altogether 


SHAKESPEARE. 


97 


on  my  own  refources ; the  field  is  not  perfedly  new, 
though  not  yet  fyftematically  cultivated.  From  all  the 
critics  I fhall  freely  borrow  materials,  and  efpecially 
from  Coleridge,  whofe  obfervations,  though  unhappily 
fcattered  as  the  Sibyl’s  leaves,  are  full  of  the  keeneft 
infight  and  the  fineft  feeling.  My  aim  will  be  to  give 
to  fads  and  thoughts  colleded  from  every  fource  one 
common  bearing,  to  make  them  all  converge  towards 
the  illuftration  of  Shakefpeare’s  perfonality. 

He  began  writing  for  the  ftage  moft  probably  about 
1591,  and  did  not  ceafe  before  1612  or  1613.  Now 
one  of  the  moll  decifive  evidences  of  vigorous  vitality, 
is  fieady  and  healthy  growth.  In  fo  opulent  a nature 
as  Shakefpeare’s,  one  would  fay  beforehand,  there  mull 
have  been  many  capacities,  comparatively  latent  at  firft, 
which  only  gradually  exhibited  their  full  energy,  as  they 
found  their  due  nutriment  in  a larger  experience,  and 
a fitting  fphere  for  their  exercife  in  the  demands  of  his 
art.  His  excellence,  too,  lies  fo  much  in  the  juft  de- 
lineation of  the  realities  of  human  charader  and  feeling, 
that  without  tolerably  prolonged  obfervation  it  could 
not  attain  its  height.  It  fhould  feem  reafonable,  there- 
fore, to  afiume  that  his  greateft  works  muft  have  been 
the  produd  of  his  mature  age.  But  this  conclufion, 
obvious  as  it  appears,  has  not  been  received  without 
queftion.  Rowe,  his  firft  critical  editor,  propounded 
the  notion  that  perhaps  we  are  not  to  look  for  his  be- 
ginnings, like  thofe  of  other  writers,  in  his  leaft  perfed 
works.  “ Art,”  he  fays,  “ had  fo  little,  and  nature  fo 
large  a ftiare  in  what  he  did,  that  for  aught  I know, 
the  performances  of  his  youth,  as  they  were  the  moft 


H 


98 


SHAKESPEARE . 


vigorous,  were  the  bell.”  This  whimfical  paradox  is 
part  of  the  general  way  of  thinking  which  reprefents 
Shakefpeare  as  a fort  of  lufus  natura , exempt  from  the 
ordinary  influences  which  mould  and  modify  genius, 
and  producing  his  effects  by  a kind  of  myfterious  in- 
ftinft,  altogether  apart  from  the  general  energies  of  a 
powerful  and  comprehenflve  intelledl.  Johnfon,  with 
his  ufual  ftrong  fenfe,  faw  and  expofed  the  abfurdity  of 
Rowe’s  idea.  “The  power  of  nature,”  he  fays,  “ is 
only  the  power  of  uflng  to  any  certain  purpofe  the 
materials  which  diligence  procures  or  opportunity  fup- 
plies.  Nature  gives  no  man  knowledge  ; and  when 
images  are  collected  by  ftudy  and  experience,  can  only 
aflift  in  combining  or  applying  them.  Shakefpeare, 
however  favoured  by  nature,  could  apply  only  what 
he  had  learned  ; and,  as  he  muft  increafe  his  ideas,  like 
other  mortals,  by  gradual  acquifltion,  he,  like  them, 
grew  wifer  as  he  grew  older,  could  difplay  life  better 
as  he  knew  it  more,  and  inftrudl  with  more  efiicacy  as 
he  was  himfelf  more  amply  inftru6ted.’’  In  this  paf- 
fage,  Johnfon,  as  it  feems  to  me,  attends  too  exclufively 
to  the  accumulation  of  materials,  overlooking  the  fpon- 
taneous  growth  of  the  Ihaping  and  combining  power. 
But,  having  regard  to  both  confiderations,  we  muft  ex- 
pe£t  to  find  the  later  works  of  the  poet  greatly  fuperior, 
on  the  whole,  to  the  earlier  in  ftrength  and  fplendour 
of  imagination,  in  truth  and  breadth  of  painting,  and 
in  folidity  and  depth  of  thought. 

Now,  in  order  to  verify  the  fa£t  which  we  are  thus 
led  to  anticipate,  it  becomes  neceflary  to  folve  a pre- 
vious queftion,  which,  though  negledted  by  moft  readers 


SHAKESPEARE. 


99 


of  Shakefpeare,  is  of  the  greated  importance  for  the 
right  underdanding  and  full  appreciation  of  him,  whe- 
ther as  poet  or  as  man.  We  muft  afcertain,  with  at 
lead  approximate  corredtnefs,  the  chronological  order 
of  his  works. 

On  this  fubjed  even  the  abled  of  the  early  critics 
entertained  the  mod  erroneous  and  indeed  irrational 
views.  Dryden,  for  example,  fays,  in  a line  which 
has  often  been  quoted, 

“ Shakefpeare ’s  own  mufe  his  Pericles  firft  bore.” 

But,  with  our  prefent  lights,  we  cannot  hedtate  to  pro- 
nounce that  whatever  he  had  to  do  in  the  compofition 
of  that  play  (for  the  whole  of  it  is  not  his)  belongs  to 
a late  period  of  his  career.  The  fame  Dryden,  again, 
when  he  was  aligning  reafons  for  taking  in  hand  what 
he  called  his  “ improvement  ” of  the  Troilus  and 
Creflida,”  dates  his  opinion  that  that  work  had  been 
produced  by  the  great  dramatid  “ in  the  apprenticefhip 
of  his  writing.”  How  any  perfon  of  moderate  difcern- 
ment  could  fuppofe  that  play,  fo  full  of  knowledge  of 
the  world  and  all  the  fruits  of  ripe  refledlion,  to  have 
been  the  work  of  a very  young  man,  I confefs,  paffes 
my  comprehenfion.  The  truth  is,  that  in  order  of 
time  it  comes  after  “ Othello”  and  “ Macbeth.” 

The  whole  quedion  of  the  chronology  of  the  plays 
was  fird  fydematically  handled  by  our  countryman, 
Edmund  Malone,  in  an  elfay  publidied  in  the  year  1778. 
The  fort  of  evidence  on  which  he  mainly  relied  was 
that  which  could  be  derived  from  the  following  fources. 
Fird,  the  dates  of  the  quarto  editions  of  fome  of  the 


IOO 


SHAKESPEARE. 


plays  printed  during  the  life  of  the  poet;  or  entries  in 
the  regifter  of  the  Stationers’  Company  of  their  in- 
tended publication.  Secondly,  ftatements  about  the 
plays  in  contemporary  books  or  manufcripts.  Thirdly, 
fuppofed  allulions  in  the  plays  to  contemporary  circum- 
ftances  or  events.  And  fourthly,  imitations  of  paflages 
in  Shakefpeare  by  other  authors,  of  the  dates  of  whofe 
writings  we  have  independent  knowledge. 

Let  me  give  you  one  or  two  examples  of  each  of 
thefe  claffes  of  arguments ; not  confining  myfelf,  how- 
ever, to  thofe  ufed  by  Malone,  but  mentioning  fome 
which  have  been  brought  to  light  fince  his  time. 

I.  The  firft  kind  of  evidence  is  available  in  the  cafe 
of  the  “ Antony  and  Cleopatra,”  which  was  entered 
on  the  Stationers’  books  in  1608,  though  not  printed 
till  long  after.  Again,  the  firft  edition  of  “ Much  Ado 
about  Nothing”  appeared  in  1600;  and  joining  this 
fadl  to  the  circumftance  of  its  omiflion  in  a lift  of  which 
I fhall  prefently  fpeak,  we  may  fafely  infer  that  it  had 
not  been  adted  earlier  than  the  preceding  year. 

II.  Under  the  fecond  kind  of  evidence  comes  a cele- 
brated paffage,  in  a treatife  by  one  Francis  Meres,  en- 
titled “ Palladis  Tamia,”  and  publifhed  in  September, 
1598.  This  writer  fpeaks  of  Shakefpeare  as  foremoft 
among  the  dramatifts  of  the  age.  “ As  Plautus  and 
Seneca,”  he  fays,  “ are  accounted  the  beft  for  comedy 
and  tragedy  among  the  Latins,  fo  Shakefpeare,  among 
the  Englifh,  is  the  molt  excellent  in  both  kinds  for  the 
ftage:  for  comedy,  witnefs  his  ‘ Gentleman  of  Ve- 
rona,’ his  ‘ Errors,’  his  ‘ Love’s  Labour’s  Loft,’  his 
‘ Love’s  Labour’s  Won,’  his  * Midfummer  Night’s 


SHAKESPEARE . 


IOI 


Dream,’  and  his  ‘Merchant  of  Venice  for  tragedy, 
his  ‘ Richard  II,’  ‘ Richard  III,’  ‘ Henry  IV,’  ‘ King 
John,’  ‘Titus  Andronicus,’  and  ‘Romeo  and  Juliet.”’ 
One  of  the  plays  here  enumerated  (“  Love’s  Labour’s 
Won  ”),  we  do  not  find  in  any  edition  of  Shakefpeare, 
at  leaft  under  the  fame  name;  and  “Titus  Andro- 
nicus”  is,  by  molt  of  the  eminent  critics,  believed  not 
to  have  been  his  work.  But  the  remaining  plays,  ten 
in  number  (for  probably  only  the  firfh  part  of  “ Henry 
IV.”  is  intended  to  be  named),  are  from  this  paflage 
afcertained  to  have  appeared  on  the  Rage  before  the 
latter  part  of  the  year  1598. 

Again,  there  has  been  found  in  the  Britifh  Mufeum 
a little  MS.  diary,  kept  by  a fludent  of  the  Middle 
Temple,  named  Manningham,  in  which  he  occafion- 
ally  jotted  down  his  experiences.  In  this  document 
there  is  a record  of  the  performance  of  Shakefpeare’s 
“Twelfth  Night,”  in  February,  1602.  This  was  a 
difcovery  of  fome  importance  ; for  Malone  had  been  at 
firft  led  by  confiderations  of  little  weight  to  fix  on  this 
play  as  the  laft  which  Shakefpeare  produced ; and, 
though  he  had  afterwards  changed  his  opinion,  had  not 
afiigned  to  it  an  earlier  date  than  1607. 

III.  Allufions  to  contemporary  events  (which  fupply 
the  third  kind  of  evidence)  have  often  been  imagined 
in  Shakefpeare,  where  they  do  not  feem  to  have  been 
intended.  But  there  are  a few  which  are  quite  unde- 
niable. Thus,  in  the  “ Comedy  of  Errors,”  a£t  in. 
fc.  2,  there  is  a pun,  the  point  of  tvhich  depends  on 
the  circumftance  that  the  heir  of  France , afterwards 
Henry  IV,  was  engaged,  when  the  play  was  a&ed. 


102 


SHAKE  S P E JR  E. 


in  a ftruggle  for  his  regal  rights.  The  pafiage  alluded 
to  mull,  therefore,  have  been  written  between  the 
Auguft  of  i 589  and  the  July  of  1593.  Again,  in  the 
chorus  prefixed  to  the  laft  a£t  of  Henry  V,  the  fol- 
lowing words  occur : — 

(i  Were  now  the  general  of  our  gracious  emprefs, 

(As,  in  good  time,  he  may)  from  Ireland  coming, 
Bringing  rebellion  broached  on  his  fword.” 

Here  is  a plain  reference  to  the  abfence  of  Eflex  on  his 
Irifh  million.  Unlefs,  therefore,  the  verfes  which  con- 
tain this  reference  were  added  after  the  play  was 
finilhed,  it  follows  that  it  mull  have  been  written  be- 
tween April  and  September,  1599.  Finally,  when 
Macbeth  fees  (a&  iv,  fc.  1.)  the  vifion  of  the  long  line 
of  Scottifh  kings  who  were  to  defcend  from  the  loins  of 
Banquo,  fome  of  the  lafh  rife  before  him 

<e  That  twofold  balls  and  treble  fceptres  carry  5 ” 
and  thus  we  learn  that  the  play  was  produced  after  the 
union  of  the  three  kingdoms  of  England,  Scotland,  and 
Ireland,  under  the  fovereignty  of  James  I. 

IV.  Of  the  fourth  kind  of  evidence  a lingle  example 
mull  fuffice.  At  the  clofe  of  the  “ Julius  Csefar  ” there 
is  a ftriking  fpeech  of  Antony,  in  which  he  eulogifes 
the  character  of  Brutus.  Now,  a palpable  imitation 
of  this  fpeech  is  found  in  a fecond  edition  of  Dray- 
ton’s “ Barons’  Wars,”  published  in  1603,  which  is 
wanting  in  the  earlier  form  of  that  poem,  as  it  was 
printed  in  1598.  It  is,  therefore,  at  leaft  highly  pro- 
bable that  the  play  had  made  its  appearance  on  the 
ftage  in  the  interval  between  thefe  two  dates. 

Thefe  fpecimens  will  enable  you  to  underftand  the 


SHAKESPEARE. 


103 


nature  of  the  arguments  by  which  Malone  arrived  at 
his  conclufions  on  the  chronological  queflion,  and  the 
means  by  which  others,  fince  his  time,  have  fucceeded 
in  corre&ing  certain  errors  in  his  fcheme. 

He,  and  his  fucceffors  in  the  fame  path,  have  without 
doubt  worked  out  corre&ly  the  main  points  of  the 
problem.  But  from  the  fortuitous,  difperfive,  and,  in 
fome  degree,  precarious  nature  of  the  evidence  em- 
ployed, his  conclufions  cannot  be  faid  to  have  gained  a 
firm  hold  on  the  public  mind.  With  refpedl  to  fome 
of  the  plays  he  had  no  arguments,  or  very  unfatisfadlory 
ones,  to  adduce  ; and  there  always  remained  the  pof- 
fibility  that  fome  of  the  paffages  relied  on  may  have 
been  added  in  a fecond  or  third  reda£lion  of  the  piece 
in  which  they  occur,  as  we  know  fome  were  added, 
for  example,  to  the  “ Merry  Wives  of  Windfor.” 
Accordingly,  no  lefs  competent  a judge  than  Coleridge 
appears,  from  his  “Literary  Remains,”  to  have -fluc- 
tuated much  in  his  opinions  on  the  fubjedl,  and  to  have 
conflrufled,  at  different  times,  chronological  arrange- 
ments of  the  plays,  arbitrary  in  their  character,  and 
mutually  difcordant. 

In  fuch  a queflion  as  this  the  moll  convincing  fort  of 
proof  is  furnifhed  by  the  confidence  of  two  different  forts 
of  evidence — the  fcattered  incidental  notes  of  time  fall- 
ing in  with  fome  principle  or  law  of  change  in  the  ftruc- 
ture  of  the  works  themfelves.  Happily,  this  complete 
confirmation  has  been  fupplied,  with  relation  to  the 
problem  we  have  been  confidering,  by  fome  highly 
interefling  recent  refearches.  The  order  propofed  by 
Malone  being  proviflonally  aflumed  as  corredl  in  its 


SHAKESPEARE . 


104 

elfential  features,  the  plays  fo  arranged  have  been  ftudied 
with  relpeft  to  a fingle  element — namely,  the  ftruc- 
ture  of  the  verfe.  It  has  thus  become  apparent  that 
Shakefpeare’s  verfification  altered,  from  the  firft  to  the 
laft,  regularly  in  one  direction.  When  we  have  got 
hold  of  this  fadt,  and  thoroughly  apprehended  the 
nature  of  the  change,  we  poffefs  a key  by  which  we 
can  at  once  pronounce  to  what  ftage  of  Shakefpeare’s 
poetic  life  any  play  belongs.  What  was  comparatively 
a chaos  becomes  a cofmos ; and  we  learn  to  view 
the  works  of  Shakefpeare  in  their  totality  as  an  ordered 
feries,  where  every  element  (or  at  leaft  every  little 
group  of  elements)  has  an  afcertained  place,  and  a 
determinate  relation  to  thofe  which  precede  and  thofe 
which  follow  it. 

It  is  only  of  late  that  this  conception  has  emerged 
into  full  diftin&nefs.  It  has  been  well  explained  by 
Mr.  Craik,  in  the  “ Prolegomena  ” to  his  edition  of  the 
tc  Julius  Caefar,”  and  has  been  wrought  out  in  detail 
with  much  fagacity  and  jufinefs  of  remark  in  a little 
work  by  Mr.  Bathurft,*  to  which,  on  its  appearance, 
fome  of  the  critical  journals  did  not  fhow  the  favour 
which,  in  my  opinion,  it  deferved. 

The  efiential  nature  of  the  change  is,  as  Mr.  Ba- 
thurft  exprefies  it,  from  unbroken  to  interrupted  verfe. 
In  “ Gorboduc,”  and  the  other  earlieft  Englifh  plays, 
the  fenfe  very  often  clofes  at  the  end  of  each  line,  the 
next  taking  up  a new  claufe,  and  there  are  but  few 

* Remarks  on  the  differences  in  Shakefpeare’s  verfification  in 
different  periods  of  his  life.  London  : John  W.  Parker  and 
Son,  1857. 


SHAKESPEARE . 


I05 


breaks  or  paufes  in  the  middle  of  the  line.  This  ftruc- 
ture  of  verfe  is  ftill,  though  not  in  fo  great  a degree,  a 
marked  feature  of  Shakefpeare’s  early  works,  of  the 
“ Henry  VI.  ” for  example,  and  the  “ Comedy  of  Er- 
rors ; ” and,  along  with  this  fyftem  of  verification,  we 
feel  in  thofe  plays  a certain  ftiffnefs  and  crampnefs  of 
ftyle  which  might  feem  to  be  its  neceflary  accompani- 
ment. But,  at  a more  advanced  ftage,  boldnefs  and 
freedom  of  execution  are  reconciled  in  a remarkable 
degree  with  the  fyftem  of  unbroken  verfe,  as  in  “ King 
John  ” and  “ Romeo  and  Juliet.”  Later  again,  the 
broken  ftrudture  fhows  itfelf,  and  grows  more  and  more 
on  the  poet  with  manifeft  advantage  to  his  fpirit  and 
variety ; and  what  are  called  his  weak  endings  begin  to 
appear, — that  is  to  fay,  his  lines  fometimes  clofe  in  un- 
emphatic  and  unaccented  monofyllables,  connedted  in 
fenfe  not  with  what  precedes,  but  with  what  follows. 
In  the  laft  years  of  his  author-life  the  broken  ftyle  of 
verfe  is  at  its  height,  and  the  weak  endings  are  of  very 
frequent  occurrence.  Indeed,  in  one  of  the  lateft  plays, 
the  “ Winter’s  Tale,”  this  manner  may  appear  to  be 
carried  to  excels ; for,  in  paftages  where  the  matter  is 
infignificant  or  diffufe,  it  is  apt,  if  pufhed  far,  to  have 
a lax  and  fiovenly  effedt.  The  perfedtion  of  the  broken 
ftyle  is  to  be  fought  in  the  “ Tempeft,”  where  there  is 
all  the  lightnefs  and  vivacity  it  is  fitted  to  produce, 
without  any  detriment  to  clofenefs  and  compadtnefs  of 
ftrudture. 

The  general  conclufion  to  which  we  are  led,  alike  by 
the  more  broad  and  palpable  proofs  adduced  by  Malone, 
and  the  more  fubtle  and  indiredt  evidences  which  thefe 


io6  SHAKE  SP  EARE. 

late  refearches  have  brought  to  light,  may  be  hated  in 
the  following  form.  We  can  diftinguifh  in  the  poetic 
life  of  Shakefpeare  three  fucceffive  periods  marked  by 
peculiar  features,  and  exhibiting  his  genius  in  the  fuc- 
ceffive ftages  of  its  development.  They  may  conve- 
niently be  defignated  as  the  youthful,  the  manly,  and 
the  mature  periods. 

The  characfteriftic  diftin&ion  of  the  iirft  period  is, 
that  in  the  plays  which  belong  to  it  the  Poet  hill  pre- 
dominates over  the  Dramatift.  This  fhows  itfelf  even 
in  the  form  ; rhyme  abounds,  for  example,  in  “ Love’s 
Labour’s  Loft;”  and  in  that  play,  and  the  “ Comedy 
of  Errors,”  there  are  whole  paflages  in  alternate  rhymes, 
which  in  his  later  ftages  he  altogether  abandoned.  But 
I allude  to  fomething  deeper  than  mere  form.  What 
I mean  is,  that  in  thefe  early  plays  we  have  livelinefs 
of  fancy,  beauty  of  imagery,  brilliancy  of  expreftion — 
all  the  qualities  which  in  the  “ Venus  and  Adonis  ” gave 
promife  of  a great  poet — but  that  in  charadler  and  paf- 
fion,  the  true  home  of  the  dramatift,  they  are  com- 
paratively weak.  In  the  “ T wo  Gentlemen  of  Verona,” 
for  example,  the  delineations  of  Proteus  and  Valentine, 
of  Julia  and  Sylvia,- are  graceful  indeed,  but  thin  and 
faint — “ outlines,”  as  fome  one  has  faid,  “ loofely 
fketched  in.”  In  “ Love’s  Labour’s  Loft  ” (of  which  it 
may  be  remarked  that  it  has  a bookifh  air,  and  reads 
like  the  work  of  a ftudent)  there  are  fome  happy  con- 
ceptions both  of  character  and  of  fituation,  but  they 
are  imperfe&ly  worked  out;  and  Shakefpeare  was, 
apparently,  quite  confcious  of  this,  for  the  Biron  and 
Rofaline  of  this  play  he  afterwards  developed  into  the 


SHAKESPEARE . 


107 


Benedick  and  Beatrice  of  “ Much  Ado  about  Nothing.” 
In  the  “ Midfummer  Night’s  Dream,”  which  clofes 
the  youthful  ftage,  the  great  artift  decilively  Blows  him- 
felf.  A wonderful  luxuriance  of  fancy  and  delicacy  of 
poetic  grace  is  admirably  harmonifed,  not  merely  with 
whimfical  merriment,  but  with  the  broadeft  extreme 
of  farcical  abfurdity.  In  the  contexture  of  the  plot 
there  is  a marked  advance,  the  threads  of  feveral  dif- 
tind  adions  being  fuccefsfully  interwoven.  But  here 
alfo  there  is  not  much  of  charader — unlefs  the  humours 
of  Bottom  and  his  aflociates  be  ranged  under  that  head, 
and  in  the  graver  perfons  of  the  drama  there  is  more  of 
the  emphatic  profelfion  of  ftrong  feeling  than  of  its 
vivid  exhibition. 

The  fecond,  or  manly  period,  is  that  of  Shakefpeare’s 
bed;  comedies,  and  of  almoll  all  his  chronicle  plays. 
He  now  draws  his  characters  with  deeper  colours 
and  with  a firmer  hand.  I need  not  condud  you 
through  the  wonderful  feries  of  creations  which  belong 
to  this  ftage — the  Richards,  the  Shylocks,  the  FalftafFs — 
nor  labour  to  prove  that  for  the  execution  of  thefe 
portraits  a larger  experience  and  a deeper  infight  into 
human  nature  were  necefiary  than  had  manifefied  them- 
felves  in  the  works  of  the  firft  period.  Nor,  be  it 
obferved,  is  it  merely  his  principal  perfonages — thofe 
who  occupy  prominent  places  on  his  canvafs,  that  he 
has  depided  with  fuch  truthfulnefs  and  confiltency. 
In  fad,  now  that  his  powers  were  ripe  and  his  ex- 
perience fufficiently  enlarged,  it  would  feem  as  if  he 
could  not  help  drawing  charader  corredly.  And,  ac- 
cordingly, even  the  fubordinate  perfons,  who  have  little 


io8 


SHAKESPEARE . 


to  do  with  the  conduct  of  the  plot,  and  are  not  meant 
to  fix  our  attention  ftrongly,  have,  for.  the  moll  part, 
the  fame  fort  of  reality  as  the  main  actors. 

Let  me  fay  a few  words  in  pafling  of  Shakefpeare’s 
painting  of  character.  His  prime  excellence  in  this 
refpect  is  the  perfect  individuality  he  gives  to  the  crea- 
tions of  his  genius.  Poets  of  inferior  power  are  apt  to 
difiribute  mankind  into  fixed  clafles,  marked  by  one 
prevailing  tendency  or  feature  of  difpofition.  Their 
men  and  women  are  like  the  perfonages  of  the  old 
moral  plays — mere  perfonifications  of  abftract  qualities. 
But  this  is  not  the  method  of  nature  nor  of  Shakefpeare. 
Juft  as  the  form  and  expreftion  of  the  human  face  are 
determined  by  the  combination  of  many  different  traits, 
fo  a human  character  is  compounded  of  a great  variety 
of  powers  and  propenfities,  partly  beftowed  by  nature, 
partly  ingrafted  by  circumftance  and  habit.  Every 
face  may  be  placed  in  feveral  different  clafles,  according 
to  the  particular  feature  which  we  efpecially  confider 
at  the  time ; and  fo  may  every  character.  And  as  the 
boundaries  of  thefe  clafles  crofs  each  other  in  every 
poflible  way,  an  endlefs  variety  of  countenances  and 
characters  is  produced.  As  no  two  faces  are  altogether 
alike, — though  fome  fimilar  features  may  lead  us  to 
clafs  them  together,  fo  every  character  has  fomething 
that  diftinguifhes  it  from  every  other.  This  is  the  fact 
in  nature  : and  fo  it  is  alfo  in  the  works  of  the  great 
dramatift.  Pope  truly  faid  of  Shakefpeare’s  characters, 
“ It  is  impoflible  to  find  any  two  alike : and  fuch  as, 
from  their  affinity  or  relation  in  any  refpect,  appear 
moft  to  be  twins  will,  upon  comparifon,  be  found  re- 


SHAKESPEARE . 


109 

markably  diftindt.”  This  laft  obfervation  fuggefts  to  us 
a very  interefling  ftudy;  which,  while  it  will  bring 
out  more  clearly  the  conceptions  of  the  poet,  will  give 
us  more  diftindt  views  of  our  own  nature.  I mean 
the  difcrimination  between  the  different  fpecies  pf  the 
fame  quality,  as  it  is  manifefted  in  different  perfons  of 
his  dramas.  Thomas  Whately,  in  a well-known  little 
work,*  has  given  an  excellent  fpecimen  of  this  fort  of 
inquiry,  in  contrafting  the  courage  of  Richard  III, 
which  is  of  the  nature  of  conflitutional  intrepidity,  with 
the  courage  of  Macbeth,  genuine  indeed,  and  never  de- 
ficient when  called  on,  but  requiring  ftimulus  and  effort 
to  “ fcrew  it  to  the  flicking-place.”  And  to  take  an 
example  from  theoppofite  failing,  the  natural  poltroonery 
of  Parolles  is  altogether  different  from  the  calculated 
and  fy hematic  cowardice  of  Falflaff. 

In  the  painting  of  female  character  Shakefpeare  is 
efpecially  admirable.  No  one  has  more  exquifitely  de- 
lineated thofe  qualities  of  the  heart  which  may  be  called 
the  effential  and  fundamental  conflituents  of  that  cha- 
radler  in  its  worthy  types — modefly,  purity,  tendernefs, 
felf-forgetting  devotion.  Nor  has  any  one  done  fuller 
juflice  to  the  true  merits  of  the  female  intellect,  its  de- 
licate grace,  its  fine  fagacity,  its  quick-glancing  intuition. 
And  his  female  portraits  are  marked  by  the  fame  nice 
difcrimination  as  thofe  of  the  other  fex.  The  lines 
of  character  in  women  are,  for  the  molt  part,  not  fo 
deeply  marked  by  nature  as  in  men  ; and  the  uniformity 
of  their  domeflic  office  prevents  in  general  any  flrong 

* Remarks  on  fome  of  the  Chara&ers  of  Shakefpeare.  See 
Archbifhop  Whately’s  preface  to  his  edition  of  this  work. 


I IO 


SHAKESPEARE. 


development  of  individuality.  But  the  diftindlions  are 
real,  though  requiring  to  be  drawn  with  a delicate 
pencil.  Mrs.  Jamefon,  in  her  charming  work  on  the 
women  of  Shakefpeare,  has  divided  them  into  three 
clafleSj  according  as  intellect  and  wit  predominate  in 
them,  or  pafiion  and  fancy,  or  the  moral  fentiments  and 
the  affedtions.  But  within  thefe  clafles  there  is  a won- 
derful range  of  diverfity.  Portia  and  Beatrice  in  the 
firft,  Juliet  and  Miranda  in  the  fecond,  and  Defdemona 
and  Hermione  in  the  third,  are  feparated  from  each 
other  by  perfectly  definite  charadteriftics. 

Let  me  alfo,  while  I am  on  this  fubjedl,  call  your 
attention  to  Shakefpeare ’s  mode  of  exhibiting  charadler. 
He  does  not  make  the  perfons  of  his  drama  pradtife 
pfychological  analyfis  on  themfelves  for  our  enlighten- 
ment, and  take  their  hearts  to  pieces,  that  we  may  ob- 
ferve  the  hidden  mechanifm.  In  general,  they  fay 
nothing,  do  nothing  at  all  for  the  fake  of  the  fpedlator. 
They  are  not  thinking  of  the  audience,  they  are  wholly 
abforbed  in  the  adtion  of  the  play.  But  it  is  with 
them  juft  as  with  vivid  natures  in  real  life, — while  they 
adt  and  fpeak,  too  much  in  earneft  about  the  bufinefs 
of  the  moment  to  think  of  effedt,  their  charadiers  un- 
confcioufiy  come  out  and  imprint  themfelves  on  the 
mind  of  the  obferver. 

So  much  with  refpedt  to  Shakefpeare’s  fecond  period. 
If  we  compare  the  third  or  mature  period  to  its  prede- 
ceffor  in  relation  to  the  depidiion  of  charadler,  it  will 
be  found  that  there  is  an  increafe  in  the  complexity  of 
the  principles  and  motives  by  which  the  perfons  of  the 
drama  are  fuppofed  to  be  adluated.  This  may  be  ex- 


SHAKESPEARE . m 

emplified  in  the  cafe  of  Macbeth,  a type,  as  we  have 
feen,  fo  much  akin  to  Richard  III.  as  to  admit  of  com- 
parifon  with  him  by  way  of  parallel.  But  the  character 
of  Macbeth  is  greatly  more  complicated  than  that  of 
Richard.  “To  exprefs  and  to  blend  with  confiltency 
all  the  feveral  properties  which  are  afcribed  to  the 
former,  required,”  fays  Mr.  Whately,  “a  greater  variety 
and  a greater  delicacy  of  painting.”  It  is,  however,  the 
exhibition  of  Paffion  by  which  this,  elfentially  tragic, 
third  ftage  is  particularly  chara&erifed.  And  in  this 
Shakefpeare  is  no  lefs  eminent  than  in  the  delineation 
of  our  nature  in  its  more  quiefcent  forms.  It  is  ealy  to 
reprefent  one  mailer  impulfe  lingly  and  uniformly  do- 
minating the  foul,  and  to  give  it  exprelfion  by  a fet  of 
more  or  lefs  conventional  manifellations.  The  really 
difficult  problem,  which  Shakefpeare  folves,  is  to  exhibit 
paffion,  as  in  real  life,  varied  in  manifold  ways  by 
chara&er  and  fituation, — by  the  whole  group  of  co- 
exifting  tendencies,  and  by  every  variety  of  furrounding 
circumllance.  Jealoufy,  for  example,  awakened  by  the 
promptings  of  a fiend  in  a free  and  noble  nature  like  that 
of  Othello  is  very  different  from  the  fame  paffion  fpon- 
taneoully  engendered  in  the  fulpicious  and  prying  foul 
of  a Leontes.  Nor  does  he  fhow  us  paffion  only  in  its 
maturity,  but  in  its  incubation  and  development,  from 
the  hrll  greeting  of  the  Weird  Sillers,  or  the  firft  whifper 
of  Iago,  till  it  has  fully  wrought  its  awful  work  and 
left  its  vi&im’s  inner  and  outer  world  alike  in  ruins. 
He  Ihows  it,  too,  in  its  terrible  flu&uations,  of  certainty 
and  doubt,  of  hope  and  defpair,  of  courage  and  irrefo- 
lution,  driving  the  foul  hither  and  thither,  like  the  fur- 


I 12 


SHAKESPEARE . 


face  of  an  agitated  fea.  He  founds,  in  a word,  all  the 
depths,  and  exhibits  all  the  workings  of  our  nature. 

But  not  only  in  his  third  period  does  he  thus  cul- 
minate as  a dramatift,  but  he  exhibits  himfelf  to  us  as 
a powerful  thinker,  ftruggling  with  the  problems  of 
exigence.  I believe  that  Shakefpeare  had  force  and 
depth  of  intellect,  apart  from  what  are  commonly  re- 
cognifed  as  poetic  gifts,  fufficient  to  have  furnifhed  out 
a Plato  or  a Leibnitz.  But  in  him  the  creative  faculty 
and  the  fpeculative  power  interpenetrated  and  were 
fufed  together.  And  it  refults  from  this  union  of  a 
grand  imagination  with  profound  thought,  that  in  ftudy- 
ing  his  greateft  works  we  feel  that  we  are  not  occupied 
only  with  the  interefts,  however  grave,  and  palhons, 
however  intenfe,  of  the  narrow  group  of  ideal  beings 
who  are  the  perfons  of  the  drama.  Thefe  individual 
exiftences  are  myftically  bound  up  with  the  whole  of 
things.  We  feel  that  in  them  humanity  is,  as  it  were, 
condenfed — that  the  interefts  at  ftake  are  wide  as  the 
world  and  deep  as  the  roots  of  the  univerfe.  In  “ Mac- 
beth ” the  unfeen  powers  are  bufy  in  the  a&ion — re- 
fponding  to  each  other  and  working  together  with  an 
awful  mutual  intelligence.  In  “ Lear  ” all  earth  and 
heaven  are  coloured  with  the  lurid  glow  of  the  wronged 
father’s  ftormy  indignation — the  fame  fhock  that  wrenches 
his  reafon  from  its  feat  feems  to  ftiake  the  pillars  of  the 
world.  By  this  combination  of  a lofty  imagination 
with  an  all-comprehending  grafp  of  thought,  Shake- 
fpeare is  related  to  iEfchylus  and  Dante,  as  by  his 
variety,  lifelikenefs,  and  genial  humanity,  he  is  akin  to 
Homer. 


SHAKESPEARE . 


ii3 

Through  Tome  fuch  afcending  fcale  as  I have  de- 
fcribed,  the  genius  of  Shakefpear  erofe  in  his  fucceffive 
ftages.  What  I have  now  to  obferve  is,  that,  parallel 
with  the  development  of  his  powers  of  conception  and 
refle&ion,  went  on  a progreffive  change  in  his  ftyle,  or 
fyftem  of  expreffion.  We  have  feen  enough  to  fhow  us 
that  a radical  vice  of  ambiguity  taints  the  obfervations 
ufually  made  in  books  of  criticifm  on  the  ftru&ure  of 
Shakefpeare’s  blank  verfe.  So  much  did  it  alter  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  of  his  author-life,  that,  unlefs 
we  difcriminate  between  his  different  periods,  it  will 
be  impoffible  to  efcape  vaguenefs  in  alfigning  its  charac- 
teriftic  qualities.  Now  a ftriCtly  fimilar  remark  may 
be  made  with  refpeCt  to  Shakefpeare’s  ftyle.  I do  not 
mean  to  affirm  that  there  are  not  certain  deep-feated 
characters  belonging  alike  to  the  ftyle  of  his  youth  and 
to  that  of  his  mature  manhood.  But  they  are  not  the 
broad  or  obvious  ones — in  fuch  features  as  lie  on  the 
furface  there  is,  between  the  two,  not  merely  a dif- 
ference but  a contraft.  When  his  youthful  manner  is 
at  the  belt,  his  expreffion  has  an  eafy  flow,  but  fhows 
fome  want  of  volume.  There  is  alrnoft  conftant  grace 
and  felicity  of  diCtion ; but  rarely  the  ftrong  pregnant 
phrafes  which  llamp  themfelves  at  once  and  for  ever 
on  the  memory.  He  dwells  on  the  images  of  his  fancy, 
and  develops  them  in  detail.  His  refleClive  paflages, 
too,  he  works  out  deliberately  enough.  A good  ex- 
ample of  the  former  is  fupplied  by  the  beautiful  defcrip- 
tion  of  the  free  and  impeded  flream  fpoken  by  Julia  in 
the  “Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  ” (Ad  11.  fc.  7); 
and  of  the  latter  by  the  well  known  lines  on  the 


1 


"4 


SHAKESPEARE. 


hindrances  to  the  courfe  of  true  love  in  the  “Mid- 
fummer  Night’s  Dream  (A£t  i.  fc.  i).  In  his  lateft 
ftage,  on  the  contrary,  there  is  an  eager  rapidity  in  the 
movement  of  his  mind ; he  feems  impatient  of  fully 
exhibiting  his  images  and  reflections ; he  flafhes  each  on 
us  for  a moment,  and  then  takes  up  the  next.  What 
Charles  Lamb  faid  with  too  general  an  application,  is 
perfe&ly  true  of  this  period  : — “ Shakefpeare  mingles 
everything,  runs  line  into  line,  embarraffes  fentences 
and  metaphors ; before  one  idea  has  burft  its  fhell,  an- 
other is  broken  and  clamorous  for  difclofure.”  From 
the  hurry  of  expreflion  required  to  keep  pace  with  his 
thronging  thoughts  arifes  a frequent  obfcurity  ; there  is 
much  to  make  us  paufe  and  weigh  the  words;  much 
that  muft  be  analyzed,  difentangled,  and  fpelt  out. 
Dryden  was  ftruck  by  this  in  the  “Troilus  and  Cref- 
fida  ; ” and,  after  cenfuring  it  with  a good  deal  of  petu- 
lance, he  annexes  the  apologetic  flatement  that  Shake- 
fpeare “ in  his  latter  plays  wore  off  fomewhat  of  his 
ruft.”  This,  as  we  have  feen,  is  precifely  the  reverfe 
of  the  truth,  and  affords  another  example  of  the  errors 
and  confufions  wrhich  are  unavoidable,  even  by  the 
ableft  critics,  when  they  are  ignorant,  or  negligent,  of 
the  chronological  order  of  the  plays. 

Mr.  Bathurft  wifhes  that  an  edition  of  Shakefpeare 
fhould  be  publifhed,  in  which  they  fhould  be  difpofed 
in  that  order,  now  at  length  fufficiently  afcertained.  In 
this  wifh  I heartily  concur.  In  the  folio  of  1623, 
which  has  been  followed  by  moft  of  the  critical  editions, 
including  that  by  Mr.  Dyce,  and  the  one  which  has 
juft  begun  to  appear  at  Cambridge — the  “ Tempeft,” 


SHAKESPEARE . 


ii5 

one  of  the  poet’s  very  lateft  works,  comes  firfl ; and 
next  after  it  is  the  “ Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,”  one 
of  his  very  earlieft.  This  arrangement  keeps  out  of 
view  all  thofe  evidences  of  progreflive  change,  which 
would  otherwife  fpontaneoufly  prefent  themfelves  to  the 
thoughtful  reader.  And  if  the  plays  were  habitually 
confidered  with  reference  to  their  fucceffion  in  time, 
not  only  would  thofe  broader  fadts  which  I have  en- 
deavoured to  prefent  to  you  be  more  eafily  and  more 
firmly  grafped  ; but  I am  convinced  that  many  minute, 
but  noteworthy  and  charadteriftic  particulars,  illuftra- 
tive,  not  merely  of  the  ripening  of  Shakefpeare’s  genius, 
but  alfo  of  the  hiftory  of  his  thoughts  and  his  ftudies, 
would  gradually  be  brought  to  light.  The  mere  con- 
fideration  of  his  gnomic  fentences,  not  in  the  arbitrary 
order  of  Dodd  and  other  collectors,  but  in  that  in  which 
he  produced  them,  would  doubtlefs  afford  interefting 
refults.  And,  upon  the  whole,  the  ftimulation  of  frefh- 
nefs  and  of  a novel  point  of  view  would  encourage 
Shakefpearian  ftudies,  and  give  them,  at  leaft  for  fome 
mental  conflitutions,  an  additional  and  peculiar  charm. 

When  we  feek  to  read  in  the  plays  of  Shakefpeare 
fome  revelation  of  himfelf,  his  ways  of  thinking  and 
his  habitual  feelings,  we  are  met  by  a difficulty  arifing 
from  the  dramatic  form.  He  does  not  mean  to  affirm 
all  the  propofitions  which  he  puts  into  the  mouths  of 
his  perfonages,  any  more  than  the  author  of  the  Book  of 
Job  adopted  all  the  utterances  both  of  the  patriarch  and 
of  his  friends.  But  as  in  the  latter  cafe  we  are  little 
perplexed  in  feparating  what  is  meant  to  be  accepted  as 
truth  from  what  is  introduced  to  exhibit  the  oppofition 


SHAKESPEARE . 


1 1 6 

and  conflift  of  thought,  fo  in  Shakefpeare  the  difficulty 
is  more  hypothetic  than  real.  We  can  eafily  difcover 
into  what  line  of  thought  he  throws  himfelf  with  pecu- 
liar fpontaneity  and  heartinefs ; and  we  can  fee  what 
are  the  types  of  charadler  and  the  modes  of  feeling  on 
which  he  lets  the  funfhine  of  his  fpecial  favour  fall.  I 
wifh,  however,  to  call  your  attention  now  to  fome  of 
his  writings,  highly  interefting  from  our  prefent  point 
of  view,  and  which  are  far  from  being  ftudied  as  care- 
fully as  they  deferve.  I mean,  as  you  will  probably 
have  anticipated,  the  Sonnets.  I am  not  about  to  dwell 
on  their  poetical  beauties,  though  I entirely  concur  in 
the  judgment  of  Wordfworth,  that  there  is  no  part  of 
the  writings  of  Shakefpeare,  where  is  to  be  found  in  an 
equal  compafs  a greater  number  of  exquifite  feelings 
felicitoufly  expreffed.  I refer  to  them  now  becaufe 
we  hear  in  them  the  voice  of  the  poet  uttering  in  his 
own  perfon  his  thoughts  and  emotions.  Written  with 
a confiderable  degree  of  continuity,  and  fubmitted  at 
firft  to  one  eye  only  befides  his  own,  they  form  a 
fort  of  diary  of  Shakefpeare’s  inner  life,  in  which  from 
time  to  time  he  recorded  the  moll  intimate  feelings  of 
his  heart.  Here,  then,  we  have  a guide  to  fome  of  the 
fecret  depths  of  this  great  nature.  Many  difficulties 
indeed  befet  us  in  ftudying  thefe  poems,  and  in  par- 
ticular we  have  to  beware  of  extending  to  Shakefpeare’s 
whole  fpiritual  life  fome  phafes  of  fentiment  here  re- 
vealed, which  were  only  occalional  or  tranfient.  But 
as  we  gain  more  and  more  fnfight  into  their  meaning, 
we  are  able  to  gather  from  them  with  increafing  clear- 
nefs  a view  of  the  foul  of  the  poet  in  fome  of  its  moft 
interefting  afpedls. 


SHAKESPEARE . 


1*7 

The  epithet  by  which  in  his  lifetime  he  feems  to 
have  been  moft  commonly  defcribed  was  that  of  the 
gentle  Shakefpeare ; and  the  whole  of  his  works  con- 
veys to  us  the  fame  imprelfion  of  an  eafy,  unexaCting, 
generous  nature — a mild,  humane,  and  tolerant  temper. 
Thefe  are  the  charaCterillics  of  the  perfons  of  his  drama 
whom  he  efpecially  commends  to  our  fympathies,  and 
furrounds  with  peculiar  love  and  reverence.  In  the 
Sonnets  he  further  appears  as  capable  of  the  utmoft 
fervour  of  perfonal  affeCtion.  Moll  of  tliofe  remarkable 
poems  are  addrefled  to  a young  man  of  high  rank,  en- 
dowed with  every  grace  of  perfon  and  every  accom- 
plilhment  of  mind,  though  not  exempt  from  the  errors 
of  youth;  and  they  breathe  throughout  a fpirit  of  no- 
thing lefs  than  paflionate  friendlhip.  It  feems  probable, 
indeed,  that  in  the  perfon  of  this  “ lord  of  his  love,” 
whom  in  one  place  he  calls  “ his  better  angel  ” — he,  to 
fome  extent,  idealizes  all  the  nobler  influences  that 
aCted  on  his  own  nature,  averting  him  from  evil  and 
attracting  him  to  good.  But,  after  allowing  for  this, 
there  remains  enough  to  prove  an  intenfity  of  perfonal 
devotion,  which  fome  have  confidered  exceflive  even  to 
weaknefs.  This,  at  leaft,  we  may  admit,  that  the  Son- 
nets do  not  give  us  the  idea  of  a robufl:  felf-fufficing 
nature,  bellowing  love  from  its  own  confcious  affluence, 
but  of  one  forced  to  go  out  of  itfelf  for  folace  and  fup- 
port,  and  prone  to  felf-diftrult  and  felf-depreciation. 
In  feveral  refpeCts,  indeed,  thefe  poems  tend  to  modify 
confiderably  the  popular  notions  of  Shakefpeare’s  cha- 
racter. He  is  commonly  reprefented  by  his  biographers 
as  a pradlical  man,  who  was  quite  at  home  in  theatrical 


1 1 8 


SHAKESPEARE . 


life,  and  was  well  contented  fo  long  as  his  pieces  fuc- 
ceeded  and  his  theatre  profpered.  But  in  the  Sonnets 
he  Ihows  himfelf  ill  at  eafe  in  the  profelfion  he  followed, 
and  bitterly  deplores  the  injury  done  to  his  nature  as 
well  as  his  reputation  by  the  influences  of  his  calling  : — 

u O for  my  fake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 

The  guilty  goddefs  of  my  harmful  deeds, 

That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 

Than  public  means,  which  public  manners  breeds. 

Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a brand  : 

And  almoft  thence  my  nature  is  fubdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer’s  hand.” 

Again,  he  is  often  fpoken  of  as  having  been  little 
aware  of  his  own  greatnefs,  and  having  entertained  little 
thought  of  poflhumous  renown.  But  in  the  Sonnets 
he  often  fhows  himfelf  proudly  confcious  that  he  wrote 
not  for  an  age,  but  for  all  time.  Again  and  again  he 
recurs  with  confident  anticipation  to  the  immortality 
which  was  fecured  to  the  objedt  of  his  affedtion  by  the 
poems  he  had  dedicated  to  his  praife : — 

“ Not  marble,  not  the  gilded  monuments 
Of  princes,  fhall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme.” 

“Your  monument  fhall  be  my  gentle  verfe 
Which  eyes  not  yet  created  fhall  o’er-read, 

And  tongues  to-be  your  being  fhall  rehearfe, 

When  all  the  breathers  of  this  world  are  dead  5 
You  ftill  fhall  live  (fuch  virtue  hath  my  pen) 

Where  breath  mofl  breathes,  even  in  the  mouths  of  men.” 

In  confidering  Shakefpeare’s  opinions  and  ways  of 
thinking,  as  revealed  in  his  writings,  the  firft  queflion 
we  afk  ourfelves  is  apt  to  be.  What  was  his  religion  ? 
I find  no  evidence  in  him  of  a fcepticifm  rare  in  his 


SHAKESPEARE . 


1 19 

age,  at  leaft  in  England,  and  altogether  foreign  to  his 
poetic  million.  But  while  he  did  general  homage  to 
the  creed  of  Chriltendom,  he  was  probably  little  occu- 
pied with,  or  interefted  in,  theological  queltions.  The 
fupernatural  doctrines  of  religion  he  ufes,  as  might  be 
expedted  of  a poet,  principally  for  the  enforcement  of 
human  obligations — 

a Why,  all  the  fouls  that  were,  were  forfeit  once  ; 

And  He,  that  might  the  vantage  beft  have  took, 

Found  out  the  remedy  : How  would  you  be, 

If  He,  which  is  the  top  of  judgment,  ftiould 
But  judge  you  as  you  are  ? Oh  think  on  that, 

And  mercy  then  will  breathe  within  your  lips, 

Like  man  new-made.” 

An  afpedl  of  things  which  feems  moll  profoundly  im- 
pelled upon  him  is  the  moral  order  of  the  world — a 
fadl  which  has  an  intimate  affinity  with  the  conftitution 
of  great  minds,  and  to  which  molt  of  them,  in  their 
feveral  dialedts,  bear  reverent  tellimony. 

“ Bloody  inftru&ions,  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  th’  inventor: — even-handed  juftice 
Commends  the  ingredients  of  our  poifon’d  chalice 
To  our  own  lips.” 

ce  The  Powers,  delaying,  not  forgetting.” 

u The  Gods  are  juft,  and  of  our  pleafant  vices 
Make  inftruments  to  plague  us.” 

<(  . . When  we  in  our  vicioufnefs  grow  hard, 

the  wife  gods  feal  our  eyes, 

drop  our  clear  judgments,  make  us 

Adore  our  errors,  laugh  at  us  while  we  ftrut 
To  our  confulion.” 

AProtellant  Shakefpeare  plainly  appears  to  have  been. 


120 


SHAKESPEARE. 


but  without  any  tindture  of  anti-Catholic  fanaticifm. 
He  never  treats  the  old  Church  with  difrefpeft.  When 
there  is  denunciation  of  the  ecclefiadical  power,  as  in 
well  known  paflages  of  “ King  John,”  it  is  di&ated, 
not  by  religious  rancour,  but  by  the  fpirit  of  patriotifm. 
The  Protedant  Reformation  in  England  cannot  be  ade- 
quately explained  as  a mere  revolution  in  opinion; 
it  was  alfo,  and  ftill  more,  regarded  by  the  people 
themfelves  as  a vindication  of  their  national  inde- 
pendence : and  it  is  this  latter  fentiment  that  fupplies 
the  key-note  of  that  play.  There  is  no  worthy 
idealization  of  the  Catholic  prieft  in  Shakefpeare,  fuch 
as  Chaucer  Iketched  in  outline  in  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, or  as,  almod  in  our  own  times,  Manzoni  has  nobly 
drawn  in  the  Padre  Cridoforo  of  the  “ Promeffi  Spoil.” 
But  neither  is  there  any  vulgar  mockery  of  the  facer- 
dotal  chara&er.  That  would  have  been  inconfident 
with  his  general  principle  of  fhowing  every  profelfion 
and  condition,  not  in  its  abufes  or  perverlions,  but  in 
its  normal  Hate,  and,  in  fome  fenfe,  at  its  bed:.  The 
monadic  clergy,  wherever  he  introduces  them,  he  repre- 
fents  as  virtuous  and  beneficent.  The  Friar  Lawrence 
of  €€  Romeo  and  Juliet”  is  a kind,  well-intentioned, 
limple-hearted  old  man.  The  Friar  in  “Much  Ado 
about  Nothing,”  when  Hero  lies  under  the  burden  of 
a foul  fufpicion,  reads  her  innocence  in  her  face,  and 
maintains  her  caufe  againd  the  world.  In  “ Meafure 
for  Meafure,”  Friar  Thomas  and  Friar  Peter  are  the 
fagacious  confidants  and  agents  of  the  good  and  noble- 
minded  Duke.  Though  Shakefpeare  in  his  “ King 
John  ” follows  pretty  clofely  the  old  play  of  the  “ Trou- 


SHAKESPEARE . 


I 2 I 


blefome  Reign/'  when  he  comes  to  a fcene  where 
there  is  fome  ribaldry  about  monaftic  inftitutions,  he 
omits  it  altogether.  All  this  proves  pretty  clearly  that 
if  the  prejudices  of  the  multitude  were  to  be  humoured 
by  abufe  and  ridicule  of  the  ancient  faith,  Shakefpeare 
was  not  the  man  to  do  the  unworthy  office.  Nay, 
here  and  there,  I find  in  him  traces  of  a politive  fym- 
pathy  with  the  religious  fpirit  of  the  Middle  Ages ; as, 
for  example,  in  the  paffiage  of  “ Macbeth,"  where 
Malcolm's  parents  are  defcribed  : — 

iC  The  king  thy  father 

Was  a moft  fainted  king : the  queen  that  bore  thee, 
Oftener  upon  her  knees  than  on  her  feet, 

Died  every  day  fhe  lived 

which  latter  words  are  better  adapted  to  a Saint  Eliza- 
beth of  Hungary,  than  to  the  ordinary  type  of  the 
virtuous  royal  matron. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  to  be  obferved  that  neither 
does  he  pander  to  low  tafies  by  ridicule  of  the  Puri- 
tans, who  in  his  time  were  becoming  the  butt  of  dra- 
matic raillery.  Only  three  or  four  times  does  he 
allude  to  them,  and  then  not  offenfively.  He  does  not, 
like  Ben  Jonfon,  bring  on  the  fiage  a Tribulation 
Wholefome  or  a Brother  Ananias,  to  whine,  and  cant, 
and  turn  up  his  eyes  for  the  amufement  of  the  audience. 
And  yet  here  there  was  fome  temptation ; for  the  Pu- 
ritans were  no  friends  of  the  theatre,  and  Goffon  and 
others  of  the  party  had  lately  carried  on  as  fierce  a 
warfare  againfl:  it  as  was  waged  by  Jeremy  Collier  in 
the  days  of  Dryden  and  Congreve. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  perfonal  fins  or  weak- 


122 


SHAKESPEARE. 


neffes  of  Shakefpeare,  his  moral  convidlions  were  never 
other  than  found  and  healthy.  On  human  duty  he 
fpeaks  with  no  uncertain  accents.  He  draws  the  broad 
lines  of  law  with  inexorable  firmnefs.  He  has  none 
of  the  fpecious  fophifms  by  which  ingenious  fcepticifm 
plays  faffc  and  loofe  with  right  and  wrong.  Such  fug- 
geftions  he  brings  to  fhame  in  the  perfon  of  Angelo, 
and  rebukes  in  the  heart  of  Claudio  by  words  of  fire 
from  the  veftal  lips  of  Ifabella.  When  he  would  win 
our  deepeft  fympathy  for  the  youthful  Malcolm,  he 
reprefents  him  as  pure  as  the  Sir  Galahad  of  old 
romance.  He  never  builds  the  intereft  of  his  dramas 
on  revolting  perverfions  of  natural  feeling  and  the 
natural  relations  of  life.  He  does  not  turn  the  “facred 
Mufe”  into  a “ fcandalous  Bayadere,’’  to  taint  the 
imagination  or  feduce  the  paflions.  He  does,  indeed, 
fometimes  offend  againft  modefty,  but  (as  Dr.  Newman 
has  faid)  “ he  is  clear  of  a worfe  charge — fenfuality.” 
It  is  only  by  fludying  the  other  popular  writers  of  his 
age  that  we  are  enabled  to  eflimate  him  aright  in  thefe 
refpedls.  We  ought  to  compare  him  with  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  for  the  purpofe,  not  of  excufing  his 
faults,  but  of  meafuring  his  elevation. 

This,  too,  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  he  habitually 
contemplates  human  duty  and  the  good  human  feelings 
as  facred  things,  and  inverts  with  fandlity  the  natural 
and  inftituted  relations  of  life.  The  bridal  kifs  is  the 
€C  holy  clofe  of  lips ; 99  a marriage  not  founded  in  affec- 
tion is  “ an  unholy  match,”  and  the  evil  of  fuch 
forced  unions  lies  in  the  “ irreligious  curfed  hours” 
that  follow  them.  Imogen’s  obedience  to  her  father  is 


SHAKESPEARE . 


123 


ic  her  holy  duty  ; ” the  ties  of  kindred  are  “ the  holy 
cords  which  are  too  intrinfe  to  unloofe ; ” tears  of 
companion  he  calls  “ drops  that  facred  pity  has  engen- 
dered,” and  thofe  of  forrow  for  the  departed — 

(<  The  holy  and  obfequious  tears 

Which  dear  religious  love  fteals  from  our  eyes.” 

In  one  noble  paffage  he  has  admirably  fet  forth  the 
largeft  view  of  focial  obligation,  as  it  may  be  compen- 
dioufly  embraced  in  the  prefeription  “ to  live  for 
others.’’  The  place  I allude  to  is  in  “ Meafure  for 
Meafure,”  where  the  Duke  is  giving  his  commiffion  to 
Angelo  : — 

u Thyfelf,”  he  fays,  <e  and  thy  belongings 
Are  not  thine  own  fo  proper,  as  to  wafte 
Thyfelf  upon  thy  virtues,  them  on  thee. 

Heav’n  doth  with  us,  as  we  with  torches  do  5 
Not  light  them  for  themfelves  : for  if  our  virtues 
Did  not  go  forth  of  us,  ’twere  all  alike 
As  if  we  had  them  not.  Spirits  are  not  finely  touch’d, 

But  to  fine  iflues:  nor  Nature  never  lends 
The  fmalleft  fcruple  of  her  excellence, 

But,  like  a thrifty  goddefs,  Ihe  determines 
Herfelf  the  glory  of  a creditor, 

Both  thanks  and  ufe.” 

I have  already  incidentally  fpoken  of  Shakefpeare’s 
patriotic  fentiment.  I think  his  feeling  for  England 
may  be  bed;  gathered,  not  from  particular  paffages,  but 
from  the  whole  tone  and  tenor  of  his  hiftorical  plays. 
He  never,  fo  far  as  I remember,  talks  about  love  of 
country  in  the  abftrad:  ; that  is  one  of  the  moral 
commonplaces,  of  which  one  would  fuppofe — had  he 
written  only  to  draw  houfes,  and  pleafe  the  pit — he 


124 


SHAKESPEARE. 


might  have  made  theatrical  capital  to  a greater  extent. 
Nor  are  there  many  places  where  he  fets  himfelf  to 
extol  the  chara&er  of  his  fellow-countrymen.  He  is 
fonder  of  a fly  hit  at  their  foibles,  as  when  in  u Othello  ” 
he  glances  at  their  “ potency  in  potting,”  or,  in  the 
“ Tempeil,”  laughs  at  their  weaknefs  for  running  after 
flrange  fights ; or,  in  “ Hamlet,”  makes  the  grave- 
digger hint  that  madnefs  among  them  was  the  rule  and 
not  the  exception — the  eccentric  whims  of  Englifhmen 
then,  as  now,  probably  making  their  Continental  neigh- 
bours Hare. 

There  is,  however,  one  place  where  he  has  lavilhed 
on  the  glorification  of  his  country  all  the  refources  of 
his  eloquence,  and  decked  her  out  with  all  the  orna- 
ments his  lavifh  fancy  could  bellow.  I allude  to  the 
magnificent  death-bed  fpeech  of  Gaunt  in  “ Richard 
II”— 

iC  This  royal  throne  of  kings — this  fcepter’d  ille, 

This  earth  of  majefty — this  feat  of  Mars — 

This  other  Eden — demi-paradife  $ 

This  fortrefs  built  by  nature  for  herfelf 
Againft  infe&ion  and  the  hand  of  war  ; 

This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world ; 

This  precious  ftone  fet  in  the  lilver  fea, 

Which  ferves  it  in  the  office  of  a wall, 

Or  as  a moat  defenfive  to  a home, 

Againft  the  envy  of  lefs  happier  lands, 

This  blefled  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England.’* 

There  is  fomething,  too,  very  grand  and  impreflive 
in  the  clofing  fpeech  of  King  John  : — 

(i  This  England  never  did,  nor  never  fhall 
Lie  at  the  proud  feet  of  a conqueror  ” — 


SHAKESPEARE. 


125 


and  it  muft  have  deeply  ftirred  the  fouls  of  thofe  whofe 
thoughts,  while  they  heard  it,  reverted  to  the  recent 
terrors  and  overthrow  of  the  Armada. 

As  it  regards  politics,*  we  muft  not  of  courfe  look  in 
Shakefpeare  for  any  promulgation  of  party  tenets — for 
Whiggifm,  as  in  Maflinger,  or  high-flying  Toryifm, 
as  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  but  only  for  the  enun- 
ciation of  what  is  univerfal  and  perennial.  And  it 
may  be  generally  obferved  of  him  that  he  is  heartily 
loyal  to  all  the  fundamental  inftitutions  of  fociety.  He  is 
a friend  to  all  that  is  liable,  orderly,  and  well-organized : 
a foe  to  all  that  is  nomadic  or  anarchical.  The  diftinc- 
tion  of  ranks  he  refpefts  and  values.  He  is  full  of  fine 
high-toned  fpeeches  about  “ degree,  priority,  and  place.’’ 
He  has  the  conftitutional  Confervatifm  of  Englifhmen. 
Feeling  that  his  country  is  not  a thing  of  yefterday, — 
that  everything  around  him  has  its  roots  in  the  paft,  he 
prizes  the  hereditary  forms  which  reprefent  the  prin- 
ciple of  focial  continuity.  He  has  a great  idea  of  the 
regal  office,  and  the  “ divinity  that  doth  hedge  a king  ; 33 
and,  let  me  add,  alfo  of  the  duties  of  the  office  ; witnefs 
the  noble  catalogue  in  “ Macbeth  ” of  what  he  calls 
the  “ king-becoming  graces  ” : — 

<c  As  juftice,  verity,  temperance,  ftablenefs, 

Bounty,  perfeverance,  mercy,  lowlinefs. 

Devotion,  patience,  courage,  fortitude.” 

To  a mob,  as  Coleridge  remarks,  he  takes  the  tone  of 
good-humoured  banter,  as  to  a huge  irrational  animal. 


Coleridge’s  Literary  Remains,  vol.  i,  p.  305. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


1 2 6 

and  turns  its  follies  and  paffions  into  fport,  as  we  fee  in 
“ Julius  Caefar”  and  “ Coriolanus.” 

It  would  be  interefting,  if  it  were  poffible,  to  know 
what  he  thought  of  the  government  of  England  in  his 
day,  and  of  the  public  men  who  were  then  confpicuous. 
The  commentators  have  noticed  in  feveral  of  his  plays 
indignant  fatire  dire&ed  againft  the  arrogance  of  official 
perfons,  and  the  lham  wifdom  of  politicians.  But  it  is 
to  be  obferved  that  all  thefe  paffages  are  found  in  a 
group  of  plays,  which  were  produced  within  a few 
years  of  each  other  after  the  beginning  of  the  feven- 
teenth  century.  The  “infolence  of  office,5’  and  “ the 
politician  who  would  circumvent  God,”  are  in  “ Ham- 
let.” “ Man,  proud  man,  Dreft  in  a little  brief  au- 
thority— like  an  angry  ape.  Playing  fantaflic  tricks  before 
high  heaven,”  is  in  “ Meafure  for  Meafure.”  The 
“ dog  in  office,”  and  “ the  fcurvy  politician,  feeming  to 
fee  the  thing  he  does  not,”  are  in  “ King  Lear.”  And 
this  leads  me  to  remark  that  the  general  hiftory  of 
Shakefpeare’s  views  of  life — of  the  lights  and  fhadows 
under  which  human  nature  and  fociety  appeared  to 
him  at  different  times,  may,  not  lefs  than  his  intellec- 
tual development,  be  illuftrated  from  the  chronology  of 
his  writings. 

Up  to  the  middle  of  his  poetic  career  we  find  every 
appearance  of  his  having  poffeffed  a joyous,  unem bar- 
raffed  fpirit.  There  is  nothing  harfh  or  jarring  in  his 
tone  of  feeling:  what  melancholy  there  is,  is  but  the 
foftly  harmonious,  poetic  melancholy  of  “ Romeo  and 
Juliet.”  I often  think  that  in  a clafs  of  characters 
which  abound  in  the  plays  of  the  firft  and  part  of  the 


SHAKESPEARE . 


127 


fecond  period,  we  may  fee  Tome  image  of  Shakefpeare’s 
own  temper  in  the  earlier  years  of  his  manhood.  I 
mean  the  youths  of  birth  and  breeding  whom  he  has 
introduced  in  fuch  numbers  into  thefe  plays,  the  Birons, 
the  Mercutios,  the  Benedicks.  They  are  marked,  in- 
deed, by  different  traits ; but  the  varieties  are  wrought 
upon  a common  bafis.  They  are  all  reprefented  as 
combining  with  a&ive  intellect,  lively  fancy,  and  dex- 
terous wit,  an  airy  animation  and  elaftic  buoyancy  of 
tone.  I cannot  doubt  that  Shakefpeare,  perhaps  uncon- 
fcioufly,  drew  them  from  himfelf — that  he  had  not 
here,  as  in  other  cafes,  to  pafs,  by  an  effort  of  imagina- 
tion, out  of  his  perfonality — but  had  only  to  communi- 
cate freely  to  thefe  creations  the  exuberance  of  his  own 
youthful  nature. 

About  the  clofe  of  the  fixteenth  century,  there  is  a 
marked  alteration  in  his  tone.  I do  not  mean  merely 
that  there  is  more  gravity  of  thought  and  ferioufnefs  of 
feeling ; thefe  would  be  the  natural  fruit  of  advancing 
years.  “ There  feems/’  fays  Hallam,  “ to  have  been  a 
period  of  Shakefpeare’s  life  when  his  heart  was  ill  at 
eafe,  and  ill  content  with  the  world  or  his  own  con- 
fcience  : the  memory  of  hours  mif-fpent,  the  pang  of 
affedlion  mifplaced  or  unrequited,  the  experience  of 
man’s  worfer  nature  which  intercourfe  with  unworthy 
affociates,  by  choice  or  circumftance,  peculiarly  teaches ; 
thefe,  as  they  fank  down  into  the  depths  of  his  great 
mind,  feem  not  only  to  have  infpired  into  it  the  con- 
ception of  Lear  and  Timon,  but  that  of  one  primary 
charadler — the  cenfurer  of  mankind.”  And  the  critic 
proceeds  to  fhow  how  this  one  chara&er,  changing  its 


128 


SHAKESPEARE , 


form,  but  retaining  its  elfence,  appears  in  feveral  of  the 
plays — how  the  type  is  feen  alike  in  the  “ philofophic 
melancholy”  of  Jacques — in  the  wayward  gloom  of 
Hamlet,  broken  by  flalhes  of  “ feigned  gaiety  and 
extravagance” — in  the  Item,  harfh  jultice  of  the 
Duke  in  “ Meafure  for  Meafure  ” — in  the  infpirations 
which  lend  “ an  awful  eloquence 99  to  the  frenzy  of 
Lear — and  in  the  fierce  “Juvenalian  fatire  ” of  the 
Athenian  mifanthrope. 

Mr.  Knight,  who  deferves  acknowledgment  as  one 
of  the  moll  genial  and  reverential  of  Shakefpeare’s  com- 
mentators, rejects  this  theory  of  Hallam,  and  regards  all 
thefe  perfons  of  the  poet’s  drama  limply  as  creatures  of 
his  art,  not  in  any  degree  as  exponents  of  his  felf- 
confcioufnefs.  But,  I think,  in  order  to  do  fo,  it  is 
necefiary  either  to  negledt  the  Sonnets,  or  to  give  them 
a non-natural  interpretation.  It  is  clear  from  thofe 
poems  (which  belong  to  the  interval  between  1599  and 
1603)  that  about  the  middle  of  his  author-life  he  palfed 
through  a prolonged  moral  crilis.  They  Ihow  that 
the  hollownefs  and  inlincerity  which  experience  of  the 
world  had  made  known  to  him,  and  the  focial  wrongs 
and  abufes  he  had  witnelfed,  had  powerfully  affe&ed 
his  mind.  He  had  alfo,  too  plainly,  tailed  of  the  Dead- 
Sea  fruits  of  unlawful  pleafure,  which  fooner  or  later 
turn  to  afhes  on  the  lips.  And  it  is  intimated  that  in 
fome  way  or  other  he  had  been  expofed  to  public  cen- 
fure  and  lhame.  Under  the  prelfure  of  gloomy  thoughts 
he  breaks  out  in  the  66th  Sonnet, 

iC  Tired  with  all  thefe,  for  reftful  death  I cry.” 

The  tone  of  many  of  the  Sonnets  is  what  has  been 


SHAKESPEARE. 


1 29 

well  called  a cc  Hamlet-like  difcontent  ” with  others  and 
with  himfelf ; and,  in  particular,  the  one  which  opens 
with  the  line  I have  quoted  has  much  in  common 
with  the  celebrated  foliloquy  “To  be  or  not  to  be.” 
The  Hate  of  feeling  to  which  the  “ cenfurer  of  man- 
kind ” gives  utterance  was  therefore  undoubtedly  a phafe 
through  which  Shakefpeare’s  own  mind  was  palling 
about  the  time  when  he  wrote  the  plays  in  which  that 
character  appears. 

But  Shakefpeare  was  not  to  fink  into  fuch  morbid 
mifanthropy  as  corroded  the  foul  of  Swift.  The  fins 
and  wrongs  he  faw  around  him,  the  bitternefs  of  fpirit 
he  felt  within,  did  not  rob  him  of  his  faith  in  Hu- 
manity. That  he  all  along  believed  intenfely  in  human 
love,  and  friendfhip,  and  fidelity,  is  fufficiently  proved 
by  the  creation  of  Kent  and  Cordelia.  In  his  later 
works,  “ Macbeth  ” and  the  reft,  the  character  defcribed 
by  Haliam,  and  the  tone  of  fentiment  which  it  em- 
bodies, never  again  prefent  themfelves.  Nay,  we  are 
able  to  follow  the  poet  into  a ferene  and  peaceful 
region,  in  which  the  old  fweetnefs  and  cheerfulnefs  are 
reitored,  joined  with  all  the  breadth  and  elevation  of 
his  maturity.  Three  of  the  works  of  the  laft  period, 
which  mull  be  referred  to  its  doling  years,  hand  in 
fome  degree  apart  from  the  other  members  of  the 
group.  I mean  “ Cymbeline,”  the  “ Winter’s  Tale,” 
and  the  “Tempelt.”  It  is  a notion  of  Mr.  Spalding’s, 
and  one  to  which  we  would  gladly  alien t,  that  thefe 
works  were  the  productions  of  the  quiet  evening  of 
Shakefpeare’s  life,  after  he  had  returned  to  Stratford, 
when  in  tranquil  meditation  he  wandered  through  his 


K 


130 


SHAKESPEARE. 


native  fields  or  along  the  banks  of  Avon.  Willingly, 
too,  would  we  accept  the  idea  of  Campbell,  worthy  of 
a poet,  and  which  neither  external  nor  internal  evi- 
dence contradids,  that  the  “ Tempeft”  was  the  laft  of 
all  his  plays,  that  in  it  he  was  infpired  to  reprefent 
himfelf  under  the  image  of  the  potent  and  beneficent 
enchanter,  and  that  our  Profpero,  when  the  dainty 
Ariel  of  his  imagination  had  completed  this  laft  tafk, 
forfwore  his  magic,  and  buried  the  implements  of  his 
art  deeper  than  ever  plummet  founded.  However  this 
may  be,  it  is  with  lively  fatisfadion  that  we  fee  imaged 
in  thefe  lateft  writings,  and  particularly  in  the  “Tem- 
peft,”  the  final  calmnels  and  harmony  of  the  poet’s 
foul.  Over  the  difcords,  con  trad  idions,  and  perplexi- 
ties of  life,  he  here  ferenely  triumphs  ; and,  with  mind 
difengaged,  and  temper  in  which  the  fportive  and  the 
ferious  are  exquifitely  blended,  throws  into  the  air  that 
wonderful  cloud-pidure  of  the  Enchanted  Ifle.  How 
noble  the  figure  of  Profpero ! how  pure  and  tender  the 
character  of  Miranda — his  moft  exquifite  ideal  of  the 
maiden,  as  Imogen  of  the  wife  ! What  delicacy,  yet 
diftindnefs  in  the  painting!  What  lofty  wifdom  in 
the  thought ! What  all-embracing  humanity  in  the 
fentiment ! 

Here  it  is  fitting  that  I fhould  clofe.  But  I cannot 
do  lb  without  faying  a few  words  of  the  obligations  we 
owe  to  the  poets,  and  pre-eminently  to  Shakefpeare. 
It  is  a very  falfe  notion  of  the  ufes  of  poetry  which 
regards  it  merely  as  an  amufement — a graceful  and 
refined  occupation  for  idle  hours.  Remembering  how 
much  it  has  to  do  with  the  formation  of  charader,  we 


SHAKESPEARE . 


1 3 1 

ought  to  regard  it  in  a far  more  ferious  light.  Poets 
are,  in  truth,  the  moil  effective  educators  of  the  human 
race.  It  is  mainly  from  them,  as  the  interpreters  of 
experience,  that  the  mafs  of  mankind  imbibe  whatever 
they  attain  of  the  moft  valuable  of  all  knowledge — 
that,  namely,  of  the  laws  of  their  own  nature.  They 
prefent  to  us  each  of  the  relations  of  life  in  its  true 
effence,  and  make  us  feel  and  value  our  citizenfhip  in 
the  great  commonwealth  of  Humanity.  By  keeping 
before  us  high  ideals,  they  lead  us  up  to  purity  and 
noblenefs ; by  painting  the  weaknefles  and  errors  of  our 
fellow-men,  they  teach  us  humility  and  compalfion. 
Tranfporting  us  beyond  the  narrow  fphere  of  daily 
circumftance,  they  wean  us  from  felfifli  and  mercenary 
thoughts — they  train  us  to  all  gentlenefs  and  courtefy — 
and  fhow  us  the  beauty  of  generofity,  fidelity,  and 
devotion.  They  nourifh  and  fofler  all  thofe  delicate 
fentiments  of  the  heart  which  may  be  called  the 
affluents  or  feeding-fireams  of  religion. 

And  to  which  of  all  the  laurelled  band  ought  we  to 
feel  moft  grateful  for  thefe  benefits  ? Is  it  not  to 
Shakefpeare,  who,  in  our  mother-tongue,  has  taught  us 
bell  of  all  thefe  fweet  and  ennobling  leffons  ? 

“ Blefiings  be  with  him  and  eternal  praife — 

Our  facred  poet,  who  has  made  us  heirs 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heav’nly  lays.” 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA 


ITS  PAST  HISTORY  AND  PROBABLE  FUTURE. 

BY  ARTHUR  HOUSTON,  M.A. 

PROFESSOR  OF  POLITICAL  ECONOMY,  TRINITY 
COLLEGE,  DUBLIN. 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 

HAT  I purpofe  to  attempt  in  the  courfe 
of  this  Le£lure,is  tolketch  rapidly  the  rife 
and  progrefs  of  the  Englifh  drama  from 
the  earlieft  period  to  the  prefent  time, 
noting  the  fucceffive  changes  through  which  it  palled, 
with  the  caufes  which  gave  birth  to  them,  fele&ing  as 
fpecimens  the  works  of  fuch  authors  as  feem  bell  to 
reprefent  the  fpirit  of  each  fucceffive  age,  and  illu  ftrating 
their  llyle  by  an  occafional  brief  quotation.  I fhall  alfo 
venture  to  interfperfe  a few  critical  remarks,  and,  if 
time  permit,  make  fome  obfervations  on  the  probable 
future  of  the  drama. 

Without  further  prologue,  therefore,  let  the  curtain 
rife  on  the  firft  a£l  of  the  Englilh.  drama  ; and  a very 
curious  fcene  it  prefents.  Try  to  imagine,  if  you  can, 
for  a few  moments,  that  we  are  living  fomewhere 
about  four  or  five  hundred  years  ago,  in  the  middle 
of  the  fourteenth  or  fifteenth  century,  and  fancy  that 
we  are  a crowd  of  rullics,  clad  in  all  forts  of  quaint 
piflurefque  collumes,  and  colle&ed  on  a fair-day  or  a 
feall-day  to  witnefs  a play  of  the  period.  If  you  will 
affilt  me  in  doing  this,  I fhall  try  to  point  out  what 
we  lliould  have  feen  under  the  circumftances. 


136  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


Rather  a lofty  platform,  technically  termed  a “ fcaf- 
fold,”  is  before  us ; behind  and  about  it  are  fome  rude 
attempts  at  fcenery.  On  it  we  fhall,  on  attentive 
obfervation,  perceive  a very  odd  colledtion  of  charac- 
ters. Your  glance  will  probably  be  firft  attradled  by  a 
gentleman  of  diftinguifhed,  though  rather  unprepof- 
fefling  appearance.  On  clofer  infpedlion,  you  will 
probably  obferve  that  he  fports  rather  a dubious  foot, 
and  carries  a long  tail  thrown  over  his  arm.  By  thefe 
marks  and  tokens,  even  if  he  be  not  alfo  furnifhed 
with  a fmart  pair  of  horns,  you  may  recognize  the 
mod:  favourite  charadler  in  the  early  Britifh  drama — to 
wit,  no  lefs  a perfonage  than  his  Satanic  majelly  him- 
felf. 

I almoft  fhrink  from  telling  you  what  other  beings 
of  a higher  and  holier  order  were  prefented  in  the 
likenefs  of  men  ; but  our  anceftors  were  by  no  means 
fo  fqueamifh,  and  not  unfrequently  more  than  one 
perfon  of  the  Trinity  figured  in  thefe  ftrange  fpedlacles. 

That  meek-looking  female,  with  downcaft  eyes  and 
voice  fubdued,  is  probably  meant  for  Mary  the  Virgin, 
and  her  companion,  beautiful  even  in  her  coarfe  garb 
of  penitence,  is  the  Magdalen. 

Among  thefe  auguft  perfonages,  however,  are  mingled 
others  of  a lefs  awful  prefence.  Probably  fome  youth 
is  reprefented  as  forming  the  fubjedt  of  an  animated 
contell;  between  the  powers  of  good  and  evil,  who 
each  claim  him  for  their  own.  Or  it  may  be  that 
fome  hoary-headed  finner  who  has  been  dabbling  in 
alchymy,  or  fome  precocious  young  damfel  that  has 
been  pradtifing  witchcraft,  is  about  to  be  handed  over 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


137 

to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  afore-mentioned  gentleman 
of  finifler  afped. 

To  thofe  accuftomed  to  the  modern  drama,  with  its 
completely  worldly  charader,  fuch  a pidure  of  the 
only  kind  of  play  known  in  the  middle  ages  cannot  but 
appear  ftrange.  Neverthelefs  fuch  exhibitions  were 
then  exceedingly  common.  They  were  chiefly  pro- 
vided by  the  clergy  for  the  purpofe  of  conveying  reli- 
gious or  moral  inftrudion  to  the  people  in  an 
entertaining  manner,  and  the  performance  was  not 
unfrequently  given  in  a place  of  worfhip  after  divine 
fervice. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  ftridly  corred  to  fpeak  of  that 
precife  type  of  dramatic  fpedacle  of  which  I have  en- 
deavoured to  give  you  fome  notion,  as  the  earlieft  form 
of  play  aded  in  England.  The  fad  is,  thefe  religious 
dramas  were  of  two  clafles.  The  earlier  confifted 
merely  of  fome  Scripture  ftory  or  fome  faintly  legend 
thrown  into  a dramatic  fhape.  In  it  all  the  characters 
were  real,  though  fome  were  fupernatural.  Such  a 
drama  was  called  a “ Miracle  Play.”  But,  for  fome 
reafon,  probably  on  account  of  the  manifeft  impro- 
priety of  introducing  the  Deity  on  the  ftage,  and  in 
company  with  the  devil  moreover,  this  fpecies  of  play 
was  afterwards  in  a great  meafure  fuperfeded  by  another 
called  the  “Morality.”  In  the  “ Morality”  the  virtues 
and  vices  fuppliea  the  places  of  the  powers  of  good  and 
evil,  and,  in  general,  feelings,  paflions,  and  principles, 
were  reprefented  in  the  abftrad.  Thus  Juitice  and 
Patriotifm,  as  well  as  Falfehood,  Vice,  or  Ingratitude, 
were  made  to  take  part  in  the  adion. 


138  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


Finally  came  a third  fpecies  of  religious  play,  in 
which  both  thefe  fpecies  of  characters  were  inter- 
mingled. This  “ Mixed  ” play,  as  it  is  fometimes 
called,  was  that  half-miracle,  half-morality,  which  my 
defcription  referred  to. 

Although  the  plots  of  the  miracle  plays  were 
drawn  from  Scripture  narratives  and  faintly  legends, 
they  did  not  llriCtly  follow  the  original.  In  order  to 
render  them  palatable  to  a popular  audience,  it  was 
neceflary  to  enliven  them  by  the  introduction  of  fcenes 
and  epifodes  of  a more  worldly  character  ; and  here, 
indeed,  we  can  occafionally  perceive  not  a little  dra- 
matic power,  though  difplayed  on  fo  lingular  a Itage. 

In  order  to  enable  you  to  form  fome  idea  of  a 
miracle-play,  I lhall  take  as  an  example  one  of  that 
famous  collection  known  as  the  “ Townley  Mylteries.” 
The  “ Townley  Mylteries  ” conlill  of  a feries  of 
thefe  facred  dramas  founded  on  Scriptural  fubjeCts, 
commencing  with  the  Creation,  and  embracing  molt 
of  the  leading  incidents  narrated  in  the  Old  and  New 
Teltaments.  The  one  I have  chofen  for  an  example  is 
the  “ Procelfus  Noe,”  or  “ Career  of  Noah.”  It  opens 
with  a defcription  of  the  interview  between  the  Deity 
and  the  Patriarch,  in  which  the  coming  of  the  flood  is 
foretold,  and  directions  are  given  for  the  conltruCtion 
of  the  ark.  In  this  portion  of  the  work  the  Mofaic 
account  is  followed  pretty  clofely  ; but  the  writer  has 
enlivened  the  play  with  an  epifode  which  Itrangely 
contrails  with  this  folemn  opening. 

Noah,  it  feems,  according  to  this  veracious  record, 
was  fomewhat  unfortunate  in  his  domeltic  relations. 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


1 39 


His  wife  was  a threw ; and  the  home  of  the  patriarch 
was  much  dilturbed  by  family  jars.  When  difmifled, 
therefore,  from  the  Divine  prefence,  his  thoughts  im- 
mediately recur  to  the  reception  his  intelligence  will 
receive  from  his  helpmate.  It  is  thus  he  foliloquifes  : — 

tc  My  wife,  I will  fee  what  fhe  will  fay  $ 

And  I am  aghaft  left  we  have  a fray 
Betwixt  us  both ; 

For  Ihe  is  ill-tempered, 

For  little  oft  angry. 

If  anything  wrong  be, 

Soon  is  Ihe  wroth.” 

Here  it  may  be  well  to  obferve  that  in  this  and  any 
other  extracts  I had  occafion  to  make,  I found  it  necef- 
fary  to  modernife  the  language  a good  deal,  as  otherwife 
it  would  not  have  been  very  intelligible  without  the 
aid  of  an  Anglo-Saxon  gloffary.  I have,  however, 
endeavoured  to  preferve  the  fpirit  and  metre  of  the 
original  as  far  as  poffible. 

Notwithftanding  Noah’s  dread  of  the  coming  domeftic 
ftorm,  he  addrefles  his  wife  with  aflumed  cheerfulnefs 
and  compofure  : — 

(i  God  fpeed,  dear  wife  : how  fare  ye  ? ” 

She  replies  to  his  affectionate  inquiries  after  her  Hate  :- — 

“ Now,  as  I hope  to  thrive,  the  worfe  that  thee  I fee. 

Come,  tell  me,  by  your  leave,  where  has  thou  fo  long  be. 
We  may  be  driven  to  death,  for  thee, 

By  want  of  victual. 

While  <we  toil  and  fwink, 

Thou  doft  what  thou  think, 

Yet  of  meat  and  of  drink 
Have  we  but  little.” 


140  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


Palling  over  thefe  complaints  in  filence,  Noah  re- 
plies gravely : — 

ce  Wife,  we  are  fore  diftrefs’d  by  tidings  new.” 

But  flie  laughs  at  his  fears,  and  taunts  him  with  habitual 
gloom.  This  roufes  his  ire ; he  bids  her  have  done,  or 
he  will  compel  her  to  hold  her  tongue,  even  if  he  have 
recourfe  to  violent  meafures.  She  defies  him,  and 
threatens  to  retaliate  ; on  which  provocation  he  ex- 
claims : — 

“ We  fliall  try  it  at  once  ; have  at  thee — Gill,” 
and  aims  a blow  at  her,  which  fhe  returns  with  fpirit 
and  effedt.  But  though  vanquifhed,  fhe  is  not  fubdued  ; 
though  he  accufes  her  of  “ fhrieking ” and  “ whining” 
by  turns,  it  appears  that  fhe  “ bites  ” with  not  lefs 
pertinacity. 

The  patriarch  becoming  at  length  fomewhat  exhaufted 
with  his  exertions,  and  the  lady  fomewhat  cooled 
down,  fhe  goes  to  her  fpinning,  and  he  begins  to  think 
of  the  light  and  agreeable  talk  he  had  before  him, 
namely,  the  conftrudtion  of  the  ark  : — 

(e  I tarry  full  long  from  my  work  I trow, 

Now  my  gear  will  I take  and  thitherward  go. 

* * # # # 

Now  aflay  will  I 
What  I ken  of  carpentry. 

# # # * * 

To  begin  on  this  tree  my  bones  will  I bend, 

I trow  from  the  Trinity  will  fuccour  be  fend. 
***** 

Now  my  gown  will  I caft,  and  work  in  my  coat, 

Make  will  1 the  maft,  ere  I ftir  one  foot. 

Ah  ! my  back  it  will  break  ! This  is  a forry  note, 

5Tis  a wonder  I laft,  I am  fuch  an  old  dote.” 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


H1 

Defpite  of  much  more  repining  to  the  fame  effedt 
the  work  progreftes,  and,  to  his  great  aftonifhment,  is 
at  length  quite  finifhed,  even  to  the  coat  of  pitch  and 
tar  that  was  to  make  the  veftel  water-tight.  Meanwhile 
his  wife  has  been  engaged  in  her  favourite  occupation, 
fpinning.  At  this  ftage  of  the  proceedings  it  becomes 
neceflary  to  inform  her  and  his  family  of  the  hate  of 
affairs,  for  as  yet  they  are  unaware  of  the  approaching 
cataclyfm : — 

Noah.  (C  Come  hither,  wife,  quickly,  and  conflderj 
Hence  muft  we  fly  all  at  once  together 
In  hafte. 

Wife.  Why,  firs,  what  ails  ye  ? 

Who  is  it  aflails  ye  ? 

To  flee  it  avails  ye, 

And  ye  be  aghaft. 

Noah.  There  are  wigs  on  the  green  elfe,  my  dame.* 

Wife.  Come  tell  me  all  about  it,  elfe  ye  get  blame.” 

He  does  fo  and  her  confirmation  is  great.  Noah 
fays — 

u Be  not  afraid  : have  done  : pack  up  our  traps : f 
That  we  be  i’  th’  ark  ere  noon,  without  more  mifhaps.” 

The  fons  then  enter  and  begin  to  put  the  houfehold 
gods  on  board  the  ark  with  alacrity  ; their  mother  lends 
a hand  too ; but  left  it  fhould  be  thought  that  fhe  was 
a willing  agent,  takes  care  to  let  it  be  known  that  fhe 
only  does  lb  “for  fear  of  a fkelp.”  Everything  being 
now  ready,  it  only  remains  to  get  fnugly  into  the  ark, 
fhut  the  door,  and  quietly  watch  the  reft  of  the  world 

* The  original  is,  u There  is  yarn  on  the  reel  elfe,  my  dame.” 

f “ Gear,”  in  the  original. 


142 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


in  procefs  of  fubmerfion.  An  unforefeen  difficulty, 
however,  now  prefen  ts  itfelf.  The  effefls  of  her  morn- 
ing’s caftigation  having  apparently  paffed  off,  the  wife 
is  once  more,  like  Pip’s  filler,  “ on  the  rampage.”  She 
gives  vent  to  her  ill-temper  accordingly  after  the  follow- 
ing falhion  : — 

Wife.  (i  I never  was  mewed  up  before,  as  ever  I might  thee, 

In  fuch  a crib  as  this  ; 

In  faith  I cannot  find 

Which  is  before  and  which  behind. 

But  fhall  we  here  be  penned, 

Noah,  as  you  hope  for  blifs  ? 

Noah.  Dame,  as  it  is  reafon,  here  muft  we  abide,  grace ; 

Therefore,  wife,  with  good-will  come  into  this  place. 

Wife.  For  Jack  nor  for  Gill  will  I turn  my  face 
Till  I have  on  this  hill  fpun  a Jpace 
On  my  rock 

At  this  unexpected  announcement,  accompanied  by 
a threat  that  fhe  will  “ knock ” any  one  that  “lets” 
her,  blank  aftonifhment  lights  on  her  whole  family. 
The  reft  of  the  fcene,  if  I had  time  to  read  it  to  you, 
is  exquifitely  ludicrous.  The  water  falls  in  “ cataracts  ” 
from  the  Iky,  and  gullies  in  floods  from  the  earth.  The 
ark  is  ready  to  receive  the  favoured  family,  and  fave 
them  from  the  deftruction  which  is  now  overtaking  the 
reft  of  the  world.  But  there  fits  this  obftinate  woman, 
plying  her  diftaff  with  provoking  energy  and  aggravating 
perfeverance,  enjoying  the  confirmation  of  the  little 
group  that  are  preffing  round  her,  imploring  her  fran- 
tically to  take  refuge  while  there  is  Hill  time.  Noah 
points  to  the  gaping  windows  of  heaven,  and  conjures 
her  by  his  affection  for  her  to  come  in  : “ Jhe  doefrft  care 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


*43 


a pin fhe  fays,  “for  him  or  his  ajfeftion.'9  Her  fons  en- 
treat her  to  liflen  for  once  to  reafon ; their  wives  very 
judicioufly  urge  that  fhe  can  fpin  as  much  as  fhe  likes 
when  fhe  is  in  the  ark.  It  is  all  to  no  purpofe.  “ She 
will  fpin  a fpace  on  her  rock  ; ” “ this  lpindle  ” fhe 
“will  flip  upon  this  hill;”  in  a word,  “ fhe  will  be 
drowned,  and  nobody  Jhall  fave  her.”  At  laft,  Noah, 
lofing  all  patience,  declares  if  fhe  does  not  come  they 
will  leave  her  to  her  fate.  Her  fituation  is  now  be- 
coming fomewhat  uncomfortable;  the  water  is  riling 
rapidly ; the  feat  fhe  fits  on  is  fubmerged  ; fhe  can 
keep  up  the  farce  no  longer ; fhe  is  forced  to  give  way, 
and  bundle  into  the  ark,  glad  enough  to  efcape,  and 
rather  afhamed  of  her  way  wardnefs,  as  it  would  appear. 

This,  it  will  be  allowed,  though  a quaint,  was  a An- 
gularly lively  and  well-drawn  picture. 

Religious  dramas  began  to  be  written  about  the 
beginning  of  the  twelfth  century,  and  ceafed  about  the 
beginning  of  the  feventeenth.  Their  purpofe  had  been 
ferved.  They  had  helped  to  confole  the  people  under 
oppreffion  by  reprefenting  the  triumphs  of  virtue  and 
the  punifhment  of  vice.  They  had  ferved  to  keep  up 
a belief  in  the  exigence  and  interpofition  of  a benefi- 
cent Providence,  at  a time  when  the  long  reign  of 
violence  and  injuflice  might  lead  men  to  doubt  if  the 
earth  were  not  handed  over  to  the  rule  of  the  fpirit  of 
this  world.  They  had  inftru6led  them  in  the  dodlrines 
of  religion  and  morality  at  a time  when  the  maffes 
could  only  be  reached  through  the  eye  and  ear,  books 
being  fcarce,  and  the  art  of  reading  as  rare  as  it  is  now 
happily  common.  But  with  the  middle  ages  the  want 


i44 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


of  fuch  a fource  of  confolation,  and  fuch  a means  of 
inftrudion,  and  fuch  an  engine  of  morality,  was  no 
longer  felt. 

A few  of  thefe  facred  dramas  have,  however,  been 
compofed  in  recent  times.  Milton  originally  call  his 
great  work  in  this  mould.  It  is  a matter  of  fincere 
congratulation  that  he  afterwards  chofe  a form  more 
fuitable  to  the  dignity  of  the  fubjed.  Byron,  we  are 
all  aware,  wrote  a myftery  called  “ Cain,”  which 
abounds  with  fine  poetry  and  bold  fpeculation.  It  is 
in  all  refpeds  a very  different  clafs  of  produdion  from 
the  old  myftery.  In  it  the  devil  gets  at  leaft  his 
due,  if  not  fomething  more.  The  laft  miracle-play 
written  in  Englifh  is  Longfellow’s  paraphrafe  of  the 
“ Golden  Legend.”  Though  the  poetry  in  many 
paffages  is  exquifite,  the  mind  is  rather  fhocked  at  the 
familiarity  with  which  facred  fubjeds  are  treated.  There 
is  nothing  edifying,  for  inftance,  in  the  fcene  which 
reprefents  the  fecond  perfon  of  the  Trinity  in  his 
childhood  playing  with  Judas  on  the  fhores  of  the  Sea 
of  Galilee,  and  making  fparrows  out  of  mud. 

Long  after  they  had  difappeared  from  our  ftage, 
religious  plays  furvived  on  the  Continent,  efpecially  in 
the  Roman  Catholic  ftates.  Even  in  thefe,  however, 
they  were  prohibited  from  time  to  time.  But,  ftrange 
to  fay,  one  has  ftill  kept  its  ground.  Once  every  ten 
years  the  “ Paftion  of  Chrift”  is  reprefented  in  Am- 
mergau,  a village  in  Bavaria.  About  1663  a peftilence 
vifited  the  vale  in  which  Ammergau  lies ; and  on  that 
occafion  the  inhabitants  made  a vow,  in  fulfilment  of 
which  this  decennial  reprefentation  takes  place,  this 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


H5 

drama  being  exempted  from  the  general  prohibition  by 
a fpecial  privilege  accorded  by  the  King  of  Bavaria 
in  1810.* 

From  the  exigence  of  fuch  attempts  at  dramatic 
compofition  as  the  Miracle-plays,  of  which  we  have 
had  a fpecimen,  no  one  could  have  anticipated  the 
fplendid  future  that  was  in  ftore  for  the  Englifh 
drama.  Neverthelefs,  early  in  the  fixteenth  century 
it  began  to  give  figns  of  clearing  itfelf  from  thofe 
incumbrances  which  retarded  its  development.  Thus 
a fort  of  play  in  one  a6t  had  been  invented  to  fill  up 
the  time  between  the  courfes  of  the  banquets  given  by 
princes  and  nobles.  They  were  on  that  account 
called  “ Interludes.”  As  anything  partaking  of  a facred 
charadler  would  have  been  out  of  place  amid  the  rude 
junketings  of  flill  but  half-civilized  ariftocracy,  thefe 
interludes  were  moftly  founded  on  incidents  drawn 
from  common  life,  and  of  a more  or  lefs  humorous 
chara&er.  John  Heywood  feems  to  have  dealt  largely 
in  this  fpecies  of  compofition,  if,  indeed,  he  was  not 
the  inventor  of  it.  A very  good  fpecimen  of  the 
interlude  is  furnifhed  by  a piece  of  his  called  the  “ Four 
P’s,”  fo  fly  led  from  the  initial  letter  of  each  of  the  four 
dramatis  ferjonte,  namely,  a Palmer,  a Pardoner,  a 
Pedlar,  and  a Poticary  (or,  apothecary).  Thefe  four 
worthies  engage  in  a fpirited  contefl  as  to  which  can 
tell  the  greateft  lie.  In  the  courfe  of  the  piece  the 

* Thofe  who  take  an  intereft  in  the  fubjeft  will  find  a full 
account  of  the  pageant  in  the  fecond  volume  of  Macmillan's 
Magazine,  p.  463.  Since  writing  this  paffage  I have  afcertained 
that  thefe  fpedtacles  are  ftill  reprefented  in  America. 


L 


146  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


Palmer  happens  to  obferve  that  he  never  faw  a woman 
out  of  temper.  His  rivals,  upon  his  making  this  cafual 
remark,  unguardedly  declare  that  it  was  the  greatefl 
falfehood  they  ever  heard.  The  Palmer,  taking  advan- 
tage of  this  involuntary  admiffion,  claims  the  prize, 
and  moil  undefervedly,  in  my  humble  judgment,  bears 
away  the  palm  for  mendacity. 

A piece  like  the  “ Four  P’s  ” can  fcarcely  lay  more 
claim  to  the  title  of  a drama  than  an  ading  charade. 
But  fome  time  previous  to  155  1,  a play  had  been  pro- 
duced poffeffing  in  point  of  plot,  charaders,  and  form, 
all  the  features  belonging  to  a drama  proper.  This  was 
the  comedy  of  “ Ralph  Roifler  Doifler.”  Before  the 
difcovery  of  this  work,  another,  called  “ Gammer  Gur- 
ton’s  Needle,”  enjoyed  the  credit  of  being  the  proto- 
comedy in  the  Englifh  language.  This  latter  is  founded 
on  a domeflic  bereavement ; to  wit,  the  lofs  of  Dame 
Gurton’s  favourite,  if  not  her  only,  needle.  In  that 
age,  before  the  furniture  of  a lady’s  work-box  was 
turned  out  by  fleam-power,  fuch  a lofs  was  a real 
calamity.  I am  happy,  therefore,  to  inform  you  that 
the  good  lady,  in  the  end,  found  her  needle ; but  the 
how  and  the  where  I decline  to  fay.  The  curious 
mull  confult  the  original. 

I cannot  fay  that  “ Gammer  Gurton’s  Needle  ” 
poffeffes  much  point ; nor  do  I admire  the  rollicking 
mirth  of  “ Ralph  Roifler  Doifler.”  Thefe  pieces 
have  very  little  value  in  a literary  point  of  view,  what- 
ever they  may  poffefs  as  matters  of  antiquarian  cu- 
riofity. 

“ Ralph  Roifler  Doifler  99  and  “ Gammer  Gurton’s 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 147 

Needle  ” were  both  comedies.  But  we  are  told  that, 
in  1562,  Queen  Elizabeth  witneffed,  at  her  palace  of 
Whitehall,  a play  called  “ Gorboduc,”  performed  by 
the  gentlemen  of  the  Inner  Temple.  “ Gorboduc  ” is 
remarkable  as  being,  fo  far  as  we  know,  the  earlieft 
tragedy  proper  in  the  language.  But  it  is  perhaps  ftill 
more  remarkable  as  being  the  earlieft  experiment  in 
the  employment  in  dramatic  productions  of  that  fpecies 
of  verfification  which  experience  has  fully  fhown  to  be 
beft  adapted  to  them,  namely,  blank  verfe. 

The  tragic  drama  of  “ Gorboduc ” is  the  joint  pro- 
duction of  Thomas  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurft,  and  of 
Thomas  Norton.  The  latter  was  a mere  rhymefter,  as 
may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  he  had  a hand  in  the 
travefty  of  the  fublime  facred  fongs  of  the  Jews,  known 
to  fame  as  “Sternhold  and  Hopkins’s  Verfion  of  the 
Pfalms  of  David.”  Thomas  Sackville  was  a man  of 
different  ftamp.  He  was  at  leaft  a poet,  if  he  was  not 
a dramatift.  His  ftyle  poffefles  all  the  gloomy  grandeur 
of  Spenfer  in  his  fombre  mood  ; it  is  funereal  indeed, 
but  it  reprefents  the  majefty  of  woe.  This  tragedy  was 
not  the  only  work  in  which  Sackville  had  been  con- 
cerned, he  had  alfo  planned  and  aftifted  in  carrying  out 
a literary  project  called  “ The  Mirrour  for  Magiftrates,” 
which  was  a collection  of  verfified  biographies  of  the 
principal  characters  in  Englifh  hiftory,  and  enjoyed  a 
lengthened  popularity.  However,  with  all  his  deep 
pathos,  and  all  his  fublimity  of  imagination,  Sackville 
wanted  that  animation  which  is  eftential  to  a dramatift. 
He  excelled  in  narrative,  but  in  dialogue  he  failed.  Hence 
u Gorboduc  ” is  more  like  an  epic  broken  up  into  ads 


148  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


and  fcenes,  than  a work  originally  call  in  a dramatic 
mould. 

The  Rubicon  once  palled,  the  progrefs  of  dramatic 
compofition  in  England  was  rapid.  The  names  of  the 
authors  and  their  works  are  almoft  legion.  The  reader 
of  the  productions  of  the  lall:  half  of  the  lixteenth 
century  feels  himfelf  as  it  were  fuddenly  thrown  among 
the  crowd  in  a bufy  and  populous  city ; or  perhaps  a 
better  illuftration  would  be  the  fenfation  of  a Itranger 
who  for  the  firfh  time  mingles  in  the  carnival  at  Rome. 
It  teems  with  life,  with  life  in  every  variety,  with  cha- 
racter in  every  phafe.  There  is  no  rank,  no  calling,  no 
idiofyncracy  without  its  reprefentative.  Emperors, 
politicians,  priefts,  Frenchmen,  Spaniards,  Germans, 
Turks;  the  fwarthy  inhabitants  of  Indoftan,  and  the 
fierce  warriors  of  Tartary;  the  mifer  and  the  fpend- 
thrift ; the  ruined  ariftocrat,  and  the  purfe-proud  up- 
ftart ; gentle  and  alfeCtionate  wives,  and  cruel  traitors 
to  the  marriage-vow,  all  throng  the  llage,  and  move 
about  in  fcenes  which,  if  fometimes  tindured  with  ex- 
aggeration and  improbability,  are  feldom  deficient  in 
power  and  interell. 

Amid  fuch  a profufion  the  talk  of  feleCling  is  difficult. 
It  feems  flighting  the  mighty  dead  to  pafs  over  any  of 
their  names  in  filence.  But  I cannot  paufe  to  fpeak  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  the  Damon  and  Pythias  of 
literature,  nor  of  Lyly  the  euphuill,  and  his  imitators, 
Peele  and  Greene,  and  Kyd  and  Lodge,  who  did  fo 
much  to  refine,  and  not  a little  to  weaken  the  pro- 
nunciation of  our  language  by  their  courtly  utterance. 
Paffing  over  the  works  of  thefe  and  many  others,  I have 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


H 9 

made  choice  of  two  pieces,  a tragedy  and  a comedy, 
as  illuftrating  this  epoch.  The  tragedy  is  that  of 
“ Fauftus,”  by  Chriftopher  Marlowe ; the  comedy, 
Ben  Jonfon’s  “ Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour.” 

By  a confent  almolt  unanimous,  the  palm  of  dramatic 
excellence  among  the  predeceflbrs  of  Shakefpeare  is  given 
to  Marlowe,  and  in  this  poflerity  has  only  endorfed 
the  verdid  on  his  merits  which  his  contemporaries 
returned.  Thus  in  the  afledionate  tribute  to  Shake- 
fpeare’s  genius  penned  by  Ben  Jonfon,  his  name  is  thus 
introduced : — 

“ And  tell  how  far  thou  didft  our  Lyly  outlhine, 

Or  fporting  Kyd,  or  Marlowe’s  mighty  line .,J 

Shakefpeare  himfelf,  in  the  following  couplet,  quotes 
an  expreflion  of  Marlowe’s  with  approbation  : — 

u Dead  Ihepherd  ! now  I know  thy  faw  of  might : 

Who  ever  loved , that  loved  not  at  jirjl fight? ** 

Schlegel’s  judgment  on  Marlowe  is  not  very  favour- 
able ; but  coming  as  it  does  from  fo  difcriminating  a critic, 
it  cannot  be  confidered  as  altogether  uncomplimentary. 
“ He  has,”  he  remarks,  “ handled  the  hiflory  of  Edward 
II.  in  a very  artlefs  way  it  is  true,  but  with  a certain 
truth  and  effed,  fo  that  many  fcenes  do  not  fail  to  pro- 
duce a pathetic  effed.  His  verfes  are  flowing,  but 
without  energy ; how  Ben  Jonfon  came  to  ufe  the 
expreflion  * Marlowe’s  mighty  line/  is  more  than  I can 
conceive.  Shakefpeare  could  neither  learn  nor  derive 
much  from  the  lufcious  manner  of  Lyly.  But  in  Mar- 
lowe’s 4 Edward  II.’  I certainly  imagine  I can  difcover 


150  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 

the  feebler  model  of  the  earlier  hiftorical  pieces  of 
Shakefpeare.”* 

The  play  here  alluded  to  certainly  does  prefent,  in 
many  of  its  fcenes,  a marked  refemblance  to  Shake- 
fpeare’s  “ Richard  II,”  theTubjedt  of  which  was,  in  his 
foolifh  life  and  melancholy  end,  almoft  the  counterpart 
of  his  unfortunate  anceftor.  There  is  a play  of  Mar- 
lowe’s between  which  and  Shakefpeare’s  “ Merchant 
of  Venice  ” fome  little  parallel  exifts,  namely, “ Barabas 
the  Jew  of  Malta.”  But  nothing  can  fet  the  fuperiority 
of  Shakefpeare  in  a clearer  light  than  a comparifon  of 
the  charadler  of  Barabas  with  that  of  Shylock.  In  the 
latter,  the  avaricious  money-lender  is  merged  in  the 
Jew;  in  the  former,  the  Jew  is  fwallowed  up  in  the 
unfcrupulous  ufurer.  If  time  allowed,  I might  trace 
the  focial  caufes  which  have  ftamped  on  the  Jews  the 
charadteriftics  they  difplay,  and  fhow  that  while 
Shakefpeare  has  accurately  reproduced  the  type  in  a 
naturally  fenfttive  mind,  it  has  been  mifreprefented 
by  Marlowe.  But  the  play  of  Marlowe’s  to  which  I 
wifh  to  draw  your  attention  particularly,  is  that  of 
cc  Dr.  Fauftus.”  The  ftory  on  which  it  is  founded,  is 
the  fame  as  that  which  fupplied  Goethe  with  materials 
for  his  immortal  work.  Fauft,  or  Fauftus,  was  one  of 
the  firft  to  pradtile  the  art  of  printing  while  the  procefs 
was  yet  kept  a profound  fecret ; and  fuch  was  the 
rapidity  with  which  facfimiles  were  turned  out,  that 
his  ignorant  and  fuperftitious  countrymen  attributed 
to  the  agency  of  the  Evil  One,  what  was  in  reality 

* Schlegel’s  Dramatic  Literature,  tranflated  by  Black,  vol.  i. 
pp.  287-8. 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


151 

but  the  work  of  human  ingenuity.  Fault,  like  molt 
of  the  early  typographers,  was  a perfon  of  confiderable 
attainments;  and  the  German  mind,  which  unites  in 
the  highelt  degree  the  analytic  power  of  the  intellect  with 
the  fynthetic  power  of  the  imagination,  framed  from 
thefe  fads  one  of  the  molt  fublime  of  German  legends. 
Goethe  added  the  finilhing  touch  when  he  introduced 
the  beautiful  being  whofe  name  is  always  alfociated 
with  that  of  the  noble-minded  but  mifguided  Fault. 
Marguerite,  by  the  Itrong  contralt  between  her  charac- 
ter and  that  of  her  lover,  brings  out  the  latter  in  bolder 
prominence,  and  by  the  charm  of  her  feminine  truftful- 
nefs,  relieves  the  deep  gloom  which  the  hopelefs  fcep- 
ticifm  of  Fault  fheds  over  the  Itory.  Any  one  accus- 
tomed to  the  plot  as  conltruded  by  Goethe,  will  fadly 
mifs  the  fweet  face  of  Marguerite  from  the  group  drawn 
by  Marlowe  in  his  “ Faultus.”  Her  place  is  but  ill- 
fupplied  by  the  unfubltantial  forms  of  the  blood thirlty 
courtefan  who  mitigated  Alexander  to  the  deltrudion 
of  Babylon,  and  of  the  faithlefs  wife  who  occalioned 
the  fall  of  Troy.  The  play,  I think,  grows  weaker  as 
it  proceeds.  The  opening  palfages  are  marked  by  a 
vigour  of  expreftion,  and  a loftinefs  of  thought,  not  to 
be  found  in  thofe  that  occur  farther  on.  The  terrible 
end  of  the  dodor  of  courfe  is  of  itfelf  fufficient  to 
impart  a tragic  interelt  to  the  doling  fcenes  ; but  there 
is  not  much  dramatic  Ikill  exerted  in  the  handling  of 
this  dreadful  epifode. 

Before  difmilTing  Marlowe,  I may  juft  mention 
another  of  his  plays  which  is  of  intereft,  as  affording 
the  earlieft  example  of  the  ufe  of  blank  verfe  in  dramas 


I52 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


intended  for  a popular  audience ; thofe  previoufly 
written  in  that  meafure  being  in  general  aded  before 
the  Court.  This  play  is  the  tragedy  of  “ Tambour- 
lane.”  Its  language  is  pompous  in  the  extreme,  the 
delineation  of  charader  is  coarfe,  and  the  defcription 
of  paffion  violent.  But  great  allowance  mull  be  made 
for  thefe  apparent  defeds,  when  we  take  the  fubjed 
of  the  play  into  account.  The  principal  charaders 
are  Eaftern  barbarians,  proverbially  prone  to  the  ex- 
tremes of  paffion,  and  addided  to  the  ufe  of  hyper- 
bolical expreffions.  Marlowe  in  my  opinion  has  been 
rather  under-rated.  Gifford  thinks  he  bellows  fufficient 
commendation  when  he  fays  that  Marlowe  does  not 
deferve  ridicule.  Schlegel  cannot  conceive  how  Ben 
Jonfon  could  have  employed  the  expreffion, ci  Marlowe’s 
mighty  line.’’  The  fad  is,  that  the  fplendour  of 
Shakefpeare’s  genius  fo  completely  eclipfes  that  of  the 
leffer  lights  by  which  he  was  furrounded,  that  critics 
have  forgotten  their  ftellar  beauty  and  brightnefs  amid 
the  blaze  of  his  noontide  refulgence.  The  more  Mar- 
lowe’s plays  are  read,  the  more  the  vigour  of  his  beft 
paffages  will  become  apparent : they  are,  however, 
unfortunately  often  found  fide  by  fide  with  others  weak 
in  the  extreme. 

We  have  now  traced  the  drama  from  its  cradle  to  its 
manhood.  We  have  watched  its  rife  as  a dry  miracle- 
play,  which,  carelefs  of  pointing  a moral,  was  fatisfied 
to  adorn  a tale  by  clothing  it  in  a dramatic  drefs.  We 
have  feen  how  from  this  was  developed  a form  of  play, 
grotefque  in  many  of  its  features,  but  Hill  fuperior  in 
this,  that  it  attempted  to  convey  fome  ufeful  leffon. 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


*53 

Next,  we  have  obferved  how,  ihaking  itfelf  free  from 
the  fupernatural  appendages  that  impeded  its  adion 
and  marred  its  effed,  it  aflumed  a more  natural  drefs, 
and  appeared  as  a drama  properly  fo-called,  imperfed, 
indeed,  in  many  of  its  parts,  but  ilill  pofiefiing  the 
germs  of  a better  hate  of  exigence.  Laftly,  we  have 
feen  how,  in  the  hands  of  the  Sackvilles  and  Marlowes 
of  the  time,  it  arrived  at  fuch  a ilate,  that  in  form  it 
may  be  defcribed  as  perfed,  though  in  the  flyle  of  its 
verification,  and  in  the  treatment  of  charader,  much 
improvement  yet  remained  to  be  made.  The  llatue 
had  now  been  roughly  chifelled  from  the  block  : its 
outlines,  full  of  ilrength  and  beauty,  could  be  plainly 
difcerned  ; it  wanted  but  the  finifhing  touches  from  the 
hand  of  a mailer  to  render  it  the  very  counterpart  of 
life.  Had  that  mailer’s  hand  been  wanting,  or  had  the 
hand  which  was  to  add  thefe  lail  touches  been  deficient 
in  delicacy,  the  figure  might  have  lain  for  ever  in  its 
uncouth,  irregular  beauty,  or  been  marred  by  the 
awkward  ilrokes  of  fome  unikilful  chifel.  But  happily 
the  work  fell  to  the  lot  of  an  artill  of  the  moil  exquifite 
taile,  the  moil  confummate  fkill,  and  the  moil  tranfcen- 
dent  power.  Under  his  hand  all  the  latent  vigour  and 
all  the  veiled  beauties  of  the  unfinifhed  llatue  awoke  to 
life.  Need  I fay  that  artiil  was  Shakefpeare  ? His  works 
will  be  reverenced  by  future  generations  as  the  Grecian 
ilatues  and  temples  are  by  us,  as  models  to  be  iludied 
and  imitated  by  all  who  would  afpire  to  excel  in  the 
arts  which  they  illuilrate. 

I do  not  intend  to  paufe  and  contemplate  the 
writings  of  Shakefpeare,  for  the  recolledion  of  the 


*54 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


fplendid  eflay  on  this  fubjedt,  to  which  we  very  lately 
liftened,  is  ftill  fo  frefli,  that  to  do  To  would  be  pre- 
emption on  my  part.  And  indeed,  it  is  fortunate  that  I 
am  relieved  from  a talk  from  which  I fliould  have  fhrunk 
in  defpair.  I fliould  have  approached  the  works  ofShake- 
fpeare  with  an  awe  that  would  have  prevented  me 
venturing  to  hint  at  the  exigence  of  a fingle  fault,  and 
with  an  admiration  that  would,  I fear,  have  betrayed 
me  into  eulogies  that  might  have  appeared  exceflive. 

Therefore  I have  feledted  the  works  of  a fecond-rate 
dramatift — fecond-rate  only  by  comparifon  with  the 
genius  of  Shakefpeare — to  illuftrate  this  period  in  the 
hiftory  of  our  dramatic  literature. 

The  comedy  I have  chofen  from  the  dramas  of  this 
period  is  that  of  “ Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour.” 
It  is  from  the  pen  of  Ben  Jonfon,  “ Rare  Ben  Jonfon,” 
as  the  Ample  infcription  on  the  flab  that  covers  his 
narrow  grave  in  our  national  maufoleum  touchingly 
ftyles  him.  Jonfon  began  to  write  for  the  flage  about 
1593,  the  year  of  Marlowe’s  death,  but  did  not  bring 
out  his  firft  fuccefsful  drama,  “ Every  Man  in  his 
Humour,”  till  about  three  years  later.  I have  chofen 
“ Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour,”  written  fome  time 
afterwards,  not  becaufe  I think  it  his  beft  play,  but  be- 
caufe  it  is,  on  the  whole,  that  which  is  molt  charadter- 
iftic,  that  in  which  his  peculiar  vein  of  thought  is  molt 
ftrikingly  difplayed. 

Jonfon  was  a dramatic  Dickens.  He  delighted  in 
the  portrayal  of  characters  original  and  eccentric  to  a 
degree  that  makes  them  little  short  of  caricatures  in 
every  cafe,  and  in  many  cafes  extremely  repulflve.  He 
is  nervoufly  anxious,  too,  that  we  fliould  underftand 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


155 


the  idiofyncracy  of  the  feveral  dramatis  perfonte , and 
hence  he  is  careful  to  prefix  to  each  of  his  plays  an  outline 
iketch  of  each.  He  is  the  very  antithefis  of  Shakefpeare 
in  the  delineation  of  chara&er.  As  was  admirably 
pointed  out  by  Dr.  Ingram  in  his  le£ture,  Shakefpeare 
did  not  commit  himfelf  to  the  theory  of  a mafter- 
paflion,  fwallowing  up  all  minor  feelings,  and  leaving 
the  individual  a mere  abftradt  reprefentation  of  fuch 
and  fuch  a trait.  And  further,  Shakefpeare  makes  the 
character  reveal  itfelf  as  it  does  in  real  life,  by  actions, 
and  not  by  a “ felf-difle&ion  ” performed  in  the  hearing 
of  the  audience,  and  for  their  inftruftion.  Jonfon,  on 
the  other  hand,  not  content  even  with  this  expedient, 
has  recourfe  to  that  of  foreftalling  the  reader’s  or  rather 
the  actor's  judgment,  in  the  manner  I have  defcribed. 
This  not  only  deprives  us  of  the  pleafure  derived  from 
watching  the  gradual  unfolding  of  charadler,  and  the 
fatisfaction  of  feeing  our  anticipations  realifed,  an 
exercife  moil  gratifying  to  an  obfervant  mind,  but  renders 
much  of  the  play  pofitively  fuperfluous,  and  the 
denouement  a foregone  conclufion. 

The  fcene  I have  chofen  to  exemplify  Jonfon’s  ftyle 
is  a dialogue  between  Sogliardo  and  Carlo  BufFone. 
As  already  remarked,  Jonfon  has  prefixed  to  his  plays  a 
flight  iketch  of  the  charadter  of  each  of  the  dramatis 
perfonce , and  as  this  will  help  you  to  underftand  the 
dialogue,  I fhall  take  the  liberty  of  quoting  his  own 
defcription  of  thefe  two  perfonages. 

Of  Sogliardo  he  fays : “ An  eflential  clown,  yet  fo 
enamoured  of  the  name  of  gentleman,  that  he  will  have 
it  though  he  buys  it.  He  comes  up  to  town  every 
term  to  learn  to  take  tobacco,  and  fee  new  motions 


156  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


[plays'].  He  is  in  his  kingdom  when  he  can  get  himfelf 
into  company  where  he  may  be  well  laughed  at.” 

I may  obferve,  on  the  fa£t  that  one  of  the  motives  of 
Sogliardo’s  periodic  vifits  to  town  was  in  order  to  “ learn 
to  take  tobacco ,”  that  at  one  time  this  was  reckoned  a 
polite  accomplifhment,  and  iludied  as  fuch  under  the 
tuition  of  duly  qualified  profeffors,  who  had  devoted  to 
its  cultivation  the  time  and  attention  a fubjedl  of  fo 
much  importance  deferved.  The  prefent  generation, 
if  inferior  to  their  anceilors  in  other  refpedts,  certainly 
excel  them  in  this,  that  they  manage  to  arrive  at  very 
confiderable  proficiency  in  the  art  without  any  adven- 
titious affiftance. 

Of  the  fecond  fpeaker,  Carlo  Buffone , he  fays : — 
“ A public,  fcurrilous,  and  profane  jefter,  that,  more 
fwift  than  Circe,  with  abfurd  fimiles  will  transform  any 
perfon  into  deformity.  A good  feaft-hound,  or  banquet- 
beagle,  that  will  fcent  you  out  a fupper  fome  three 
miles  off,  and  fwear  to  his  patrons  ....  A Have  that 
hath  an  extraordinary  gift  in  pleafing  his  palate,  and 
will  fwill  up  more  fack  at  a fitting  than  would  make 
all  the  guard  a poffet.  His  religion  is  railing,  and  his 
difcourfe  ribaldry.  They  ftand  higheft  in  his  refpedl 
whom  he  ftudies  moll  to  reproach.” 

u Sogl.  Nay,  look  you,  Carlo,  this  is  my  humour  now  ! I have 
land  and  money  j my  friends  left  me  well,  and  I will  be  a gentle- 
man, whatfoever  it  cofts  me. 

Car.  A moft  gentlemanlike  refolution. 

Sogl.  Tut ! An  I take  an  humour  of  a thing  once,  I am  like  a 
tailor’s  needle,  I go  through. — But  for  my  name,  fignor,  what  think 
ye  ? Will  it  not  ferve  for  a gentleman’s  name  when  the  Signor  is 
put  to  it  ? eh  ? 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


1 5 7 


Car.  Let  me  hear,  how  is  it  ? 

Sogl.  Signor  Infulfo  Sogliardo  : methinks  it  founds  well. 

Car.  Oh  ! excellent ! tut ! an  all  fitted  to  your  name,  you  might 
ftand  well  for  a gentleman.  I know  many  Sogliardos  gentlemen. 

Sogl.  Why,  and  for  my  wealth  I might  be  a juftice  of  the  peace. 

Car.  Ay,  and  a conftable  for  your  wit. 

Sogl.  All  this  is  my  lordfhip  you  fee  here  ; and  thefe  farms  you 
came  by. 

Car.  Good  fteps  to  gentility  too,  marry ; but  Sogliardo,  if  you 
affedt  to  be  a gentleman  indeed,  you  muft  obferve  all  the  rare 
humours  and  qualities  of  a gentleman. 

Sogl.  I know  it,  fignor,  and  if  you  pleafe  to  inftrudf,  I am  not 
too  good  to  learn. 

Car.  Firft,  to  be  an  accomplifhed  gentleman,  that  is,  a gentleman 
of  the  time,  you  muft  give  up  houfekeeping  in  the  country,  and 
live  altogether  in  the  city  among  gallants,  where  at  your  firft  ap- 
pearance it  were  well  you  turned  four  or  five  hundred  acres  of  your 
beft  land  into  two  or  three  trunks  of  apparel, — you  may  do  it  with- 
out going  to  a conjuror ; and  be  fure  you  mix  yourfelf  with  fuch 
as  fiourifh  in  the  fpring  of  the  fafhion  and  are  leaft  popular : — ftudy 
their  carriage  and  behaviour  in  all ; learn  to  play  at  primers  and 
paffage  ; and  ever  when  you  lofe,  have  two  or  three  peculiar  oaths 
to  fwear  by  that  no  man  elfe  fwears : but  above  all,  proteft  in  your 
play,  and  affirm,  upon  your  credit  as  you  are  a true  gentleman,  at 
every  caftj— -and  you  may  do  it  with  a fafe  confcience,  I warrant 
you  ! 

Sogl.  O admirable  ! rare  ! he  cannot  choofe  but  be  a gentleman 
that  has  thefe  excellent  gifts  : more,  more ! I befeech  you. 

Car.  When  you  come  to  plays,  be  humorous;*  look  with  a 
good  ftarched  face  ; ruffle  your  face  like  a new  boot : laugh  at 
nothing  but  your  own  jefts,  or  elfe  as  the  noblemen  laugh.  That’s 
a fpecial  grace  you  muft  obferve. 

Sogl.  I warrant  you,  fir. 

Car.  Ay,  and  fit  on  the  ftage  and  flout : — provided  you  have  a 
good  fuit. 

Sogl.  Oh ! I’ll  have  a fuit  only  for  that,  fir. 

* This  means  u moody.” 


158  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


Car.  You  muft  talk  much  of  your  kindred  and  allies. 

Sogl.  Lies ! No,  fignor : I fhall  not  need  to  do  fo.  I have 
kindred  in  the  city  to  talk  of:  I have  a niece  is  a merchant's 
wife  ; and  a nephew  of  the  Inns  of  Court. 

Car.  Oh,  but  you  muft  pretend  alliance  with  courtiers  and  great 

perfons You  muft  keep  your  men  gallant  at  the 

poft : fine  pied  liveries  laid  with  good  gold  lace;  there’s  no  lofs  in 
it;  they  may  rip  it  off  and  pawn  it  when  they  lack  vidluals. 

Sogl.  By’r  lady,  that’s  chargeable,  fignor ; ’twill  bring  a man  in 
debt. 

Car.  Debt!  why  that’s  the  more  for  your  credit:  it’s  excellent 
policy  to  owe  much  thefe  days,  if  you  note  it. 

Sogl.  As  how?  good  fignor.  I would  fain  be  a politician. 

Car . Oh,  look  : where  you  are  indebted  any  great  fum,  your 
creditor  obferves  you  with  no  lefs  regard  than  if  he  were  bound  to 
you  for  fome  huge  benefit,  and  will  quake  to  give  you  the  leaft 
caufe  of  offence,  left  he  lofe  his  money.  I allure  you  in  thefe 
times  no  man  has  his  fervant  more  obfequious  and  pliant  than 
gentlemen  their  creditors,  to  whom  if  at  any  time  you  pay  but  a 
moiety  or  a fourth  part,  it  comes  more  acceptably  than  if  you  gave 
them  a new  year’s  gift. 

Sogl.  I perceive  you,  fir ; I will  take  up  and  bring  myfelf  in 
credit,  fure  . . . But  1 lack  a cullifen.* 

Car.  Why  now  you  ride  to  the  city,  you  may  buy  one : I’ll 
bring  you  where  you  fhall  have  your  choice  for  money. 

Sogl.  Can  you,  fir? 

Car.  Oh  ay ; you  fhall  have  one  take  meafure  of  you  and  make 
you  a coat  of  arms  to  fit  you  of  whatever  fafhion  you  will. 

Sogl.  By  word  of  mouth  I thank  you,  fignor : I’ll  be  once  a 
little  prodigal,  i’  faith,  and  have  a moft  prodigious  coat.” 

The  dawn  of  our  dramatic  hiftory  had  been  bright 
and  hopeful ; its  noontide  had  been  glorious  beyond  all 
example.  But  its  night  was  foon  to  come,  and  to  come 
with  clouds  and  darknefs  thick  and  fuffocating  in  pro- 

* From  the  context  it  would  feem  that  a cullifen  was  a coat  of 


arms. 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


*59 


portion  as  its  day  had  been  clear  and  brilliant.  This 
bright  interval  in  our  dramatic  hiftory  was  now  to  be 
brought  to  a clofe  for  a time  by  the  Puritan  alcendancy. 
Henceforward  all  that  was  amufing  was  to  be  profcribed 
as  finful.  Mufic  and  poetry  were  laid  under  an  inter- 
dict. The  drama  lhared  a like  fate.  The  fame 
hands  that  fhowed  their  zeal  in  defacing  the  paintings 
and  mutilating  the  ftatues,  in  deftroying  the  windows  of 
ftained  glafs,  in  whitewafhing  the  columns  of  porphyry, 
and  crufhing  the  pavements  of  mofaic,  with  which  the 
piety  of  former  ages  had  fought  to  give  outward  ex- 
preffion  to  its  feelings — the  hands  that  had  emulated 
and  furpaffed  in  the  feventeenth  century  the  Vandalifm 
of  the  fifth,  could  not  refrain  from  laying  their  grafp 
on  the  drama,  and  all  that  belonged  to  it.  Accord- 
ingly that  allembly  known  to  fame  as  the  u Long  Par- 
liament ” palTed  a ftatute  fuppreffing  ftage-plays  among 
other  recreations.  For  the  next  twenty  years  Marlow, 
and  Jonfon,  and  Shakefpeare,  were  banifhed.  The 
curtain  fell,  the  lights  were  put  out,  and  the  play-houfe 
was  clofed,  not  to  be  reopened  until  the  Refloration  ot 
the  Monarchy. 

It  is  curious  to  notice  the  quarter  from  which  came 
the  earlieft  Englifh  drama  of  any  real  merit  produced 
after  this  temporary  fufpenfion  of  dramatic  animation. 
It  was  not  from  the  gay  dilettanti  that  furrounded  the 
Merry  Monarch,  but  from  the  very  camp  of  the  enemy 
of  the  drama.  ’Tis  true  the  play  I am  about  to  fpeak 
of  was  never  acted,  or  intended  to  be  acted,  nor,  indeed, 
would  it  be  adapted  for  reprefentation  on  our  ftage. 
Neverthelefs,  the  appearance  of  a piece  under  fuch 


160  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


aufpices  is  a ftriking  proof  how  natural  and  powerful 
a vehicle  is  the  drama  for  the  expreflion  of  ftrong  emo- 
tion. I refer  to  the  magnificent  tragedy  of  “ Sampfon 
Agoniftes,”  the  work  of  Milton — a very  Saul  among 
the  prophets  on  this  occafion.  It  was  compofed  in  the 
interval  between  the  produ&ion  of  the  “ Paradife  Loft  ” 
and  the  “ Paradife  Regained,”  probably  about  the  year 
1662. 

“ Sampfon  Agoniftes,”  I have  obferved,  affords  a 
ftriking  proof  of  the  capability  of  the  drama  to  exprefs 
the  deepeft  paflions  of  human  nature,  becaufe  in  this 
piece  I think  we  have  a faithful  pidlure  of  the  workings 
of  that  mighty  mind,  when,  in  the  decline  of  years,  he 
faw  all  he  had  done  battle  for  overthrown,  and  all  he 
had  fought  againft  triumphant.  Milton  was  emphati- 
cally one  of  thofe  writers  whofe  works  refledl  their 
thoughts.  As  one  of  the  ledturers  of  this  courfe  has 
faid  of  John  Fofter,  he  was  no  book-maker,  but  wrote 
what  he  thought ; and  becaufe  he  thought  it  and  felt  it. 
He  was  eflentially  a fubjedtive  writer,  and  his  fubjedti- 
vity  fometimes  degenerated  into  egotifm.  In  his  palmy 
days,  when  the  caufe  for  which  he  ftruggled  was 
hopeful  or  triumphant,  he  gave  utterance  to  his  hopes 
and  his  exultation  in  fuch  magnificent  poems  as  “ Ly- 
cidas,”  in  which  he  not  obfcurely  threatens  his  enemy 
Laud  with  a fcaftold.  But  when  the  day  of  difafter 
came  he  feemed  to  feel  as  if  the  reverfes  of  his  party 
were  concentred  in  himfelf.  The  lofty  nature  of  his 
theme  prevented  this  breaking  out  confpicuoufly  in  the 
“ Paradife  Loft,”  but  in  the  “ Sampfon  Agoniftes”  he 
found  an  appropriate  vent  for  his  feelings.  The  whole 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


1 6 


piece  abounds  with  expreftions  which  fhow  that,  con- 
fcioufly  or  unconfcioufly,  he  was  painting  his  hero  from 
himfelf.  One  of  the  charadteriftics  of  Milton’s  mind 
was  a power  of  tracing  analogies.  He  could  have 
written  an  allegory  as  poetical  as  the  “ Fairy  Queen,” 
and  as  obvious  in  its  application  as  the  “ Pilgrim’s 
Progrefs.”  His  facred  poetry  is  full  of  adaptations  of 
Pagan  legends  to  Chriftian  fubjedls.  But  he  alfo  had  a 
faculty,  charadleriilic  of  his  age,  and  common  to  all 
minds  ilrongly  tindlured  with  religion,  namely,  the 
power  of  applying  the  Scripture  narrative  to  his  own 
cafe,  and  extracting  comfort  from  the  adaptation.  This 
is  clearly  the  fpirit  in  which  the  “ Sampfon  Agoniftes  ” 
was  written.  Sampfon  had  done  battle  againll  the 
enemies  of  his  country  and  his  God  : Milton  had 
devoted  his  life  to  combating  the  foes  of  his  party  and 
his  creed.  Sampfon  had  been  betrayed  by  his  wife  : 
Milton  had  been  deferted  by  his.  Sampfon  had  been 
deprived  of  fight  by  the  Philiftines : Milton  had  loll 
his  vifion  in  his  controverfy  with  Salmalius.  Finally, 
at  the  dole  of  his  life,  Sampfon  found  himfelf  at  the 
mercy  of  his  enemies,  who  kept  him  in  prifon,  and 
made  him  do  the  work  of  a Have : Milton,  in  the 
evening  of  his,  lived  in  obfcurity,  poverty,  and  dread, 
by  fufferance  of  the  fon  of  the  hated  Charles  Stuart. 
The  analogy  was  wonderfully  complete;  and  in  the 
drama  its  application  is  unmiftakeable. 

Though  the  “ Sampfon  Agoniftes”  belongs  chrono- 
logically to  the  Reftoration  period,  in  fpirit  it  is  far 
removed  from  it.  On  the  29th  of  May,  1 660,  the  reign 
of  Puritanifm  came  to  a clofe.  The  nation,  like  a young 


M 


1 62  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 

heir  come  fuddenly  into  the  pofleflion  of  unbounded 
wealth,  gave  loofe  rein  to  all  the  pent-up  feelings  that 
had  been  accumulating  in  the  courle  of  twenty  years  of 
reftraint.  It  was  to  be  expedted  that  excefles  would  be 
committed.  England  prefented  a melancholy  picture 
during  the  next  quarter  of  a century  ; and  the  Court,  by 
its  profligacy,  taught  a leflon  of  immorality  to  a nation 
only  too  ready  to  better  the  inftrudlion.  Every  phafe  of 
fociety,  and  every  department  of  human  nature,  fuf- 
fered  from  this  taint.  The  ftage,  which  feldom  fails 
to  reflect  the  manners  of  the  age,  early  fhowed  how 
deeply  it  was  dyed  with  the  fafhionable  licentioufnefs. 
How  twenty  years  could  have  wrought  fo  great  a 
change  in  popular  tafte  feems  incomprehenflble.  Two 
companies  of  players  were  formed  immediately  after 
the  Refloration,  one  under  the  patronage  of  the  king, 
the  other  under  that  of  the  Duke  of  York.  An 
account  of  the  pieces  adted  by  thefe  companies  fhows 
that  of  the  dramas  revived  by  them  but  a very 
few  were  Shakefpeare’s,  a fomewhat  larger  number 
were  from  the  pen  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  a 
ftill  greater  proportion  from  that  of  Ben  Jonfon.  This 
alone  indicates  a marked  deterioration  in  the  public 
tafte.  But  thefe  revivals  do  not  feem  to  have  been  very 
popular.  The  public  tafte  had  retrograded,  not  only 
with  refpedt  to  the  matter  and  ftyle,  but  with  regard  to 
the  verflfication  of  the  drama.  Thomas  Davies,  in  his 
“ Dramatic  Mifcellany,”  an  interefting  collection  of 
criticifms  and  anecdotes  publilhed  in  the  end  of  the  laft 
century,  thus  defcribes  the  falling-off*  in  public  tafte  : 

“ Heroic  tragedies  in  rhyme,  bombaftic  in  didtion,  and 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


163 


extravagant  in  fentiment,  and  witty  comedies,  abound- 
ing with  fmart  repartee  and  loofe  a&ion,  were  the  im- 
mediate fucceffors  of  the  old  drama,  which  was  founded 
on  nature,  where  the  dialogue  was  formed  from  general 
manners,  the  paflions  arofe  from  character  and  incident, 
and  the  cataftrophe  was  clofed  with  an  inftru&ive 
moral.” 

Of  all  the  authors  of  thefe  bombaftic  tragedies  in 
rhyme,  and  thefe  witty  comedies,  Dryden  deferves  the 
earlieft  mention.  It  will  help  us  to  judge  how  deeply 
the  popular  tafte  had  funk,  when  we  reflect  that  a 
genius  fo  great  as  Dryden  did  not  efcape  the  general 
taint.  Not  content  with  writing  in  rhyme,  he  defended 
the  pra&ice  vigoroufly,  and  even  angrily  attacked  all  who 
ventured  to  impugn  his  judgment.  In  time,  however, 
after  he  had  produced  feveral  works  in  rhyme,  fuch  as 
the  “ Indian  Queen  ” and  the  <€  Indian  Emperor,”  he 
grew  tired  of  the  jingling  of  like  endings,  and  in  the 
prologue  to  his  laft  and  bell  rhyming  tragedy,  “ Aurung- 
zebe,”  thus  announces  his  converfion  : — - 

(e  But  he  has  now  another  tafte  of  wit, 

And  to  confefs  the  truth,  though  out  of  time, 

Grows  weary  of  his  long-loved  miftrefs,  Rhyme.” 

In  the  “ Aurungzebe  ” Dryden  had  brought  the 
rhyming  tragedy  to  the  higheft  degree  of  perfeftion 
that  fuch  a ftyle  of  compofition  was  fufceptible  of. 
The  molt  admired  paffage  in  the  whole  play  paints  in 
forcible  terms  the  unfatisfying  character  of  life,  and 
reminds  one  of  the  lines  in  Macbeth  where  a ftmilar 
conviction  Heals  over  the  mind  of  the  ufurper,  when 
juft  at  the  moment  that  he  feemed  fecure  in  the 


164  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


poffefiion  of  all  he  had  been  ftruggling  for,  he  felt  it 
melting  away  in  his  grafp.  It  is  thus  that  the  Eaftern 
conqueror  moralizes  : — 

“ When  I confider  life,  ’tis  all  a cheat  5 

Yet,  fool’d  with  hope,  men  favour  the  deceit  j 
Truft  on,  in  hopes  to-morrow  will  repay  5 
To-morrow’s  falfer  than  the  former  day, 

Lies  more,  and  when  it  fays  we  lhall  be  blefs’d 
With  fome  new  joys,  cuts  off  what  we  poffefs’d. 

Strange  cozenage  ! None  would  live  paft  years  again, 

Yet  all  hope  pleafure  from  what  ftill  remain  5 
And  from  the  dregs  of  life  hope  to  receive 
What  the  firft  fprightly  runnings  cannot  give. 

I’m  tired  of  waiting  for  this  chemic  gold, 

Which  fools  us  young,  and  beggars  us  when  old.” 

So  enamoured,  however,  had  Dryden  once  been  of 
his  “ long-loved  miftrefs,  Rhyme,”  that  he  adually 
converted  the  “ Paradife  Loft  into  a rhymed  opera, 
ftyled  “ The  State  of  Innocence  and  the  Fall  of  Man.” 
It  appears  he  had  the  grace  to  apply  to  Milton  for  per- 
miflion  to  make  the  improvement,  and  Milton  is  faid 
to  have  anfwered  contemptuoufly,  “ Ay,  you  may  tag 
my  lines  if  you  will.”  What  the  refult  of  this  tagging 
procefs  would  be  he  perfectly  forefaw.  We  are  all 
familiar  with  the  powerful  defcription  in  the  firft  book 
of  the  original  where  the  rebel  angels  firft  begin  to 
revive  after  their  protraded  defcent,  and  find  themfelves 
wallowing  in  a fea  of  liquid  fire.  Thofe  who  read  the 
rhymed  paraphrafe  of  this  fplendid  paftage,  will  pro- 
bably clofe  the  book  without  proceeding  further. 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  Dryden’s  converfion 
from  rhyme  to  blank  verfe  was  a greater  calamity  to 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA.  165 


our  literature  than  his  former  devotion  to  “ his  long- 
loved miftrefs.”  The  mode  in  which  he  made  proof 
of  fincerity  in  adopting  his  new  creed  was  certainly 
curious,  and  had  the  merit  of  being  convenient.  This 
was  nothing  more  or  lefs  than  a condefcending  patron- 
age of  Shakefpeare,  whofe  works  he  undertook  to  “im- 
prove” fufficiently  to  render  them  prefentable  before 
the  difcriminating  audiences  that  the  Reftoration  period 
had  difciplined  in  dramatic  tafte.  The  fir  11  upon 
which  he  tried  his  hand  was  one  of  the  laffc  and  mod: 
finifhed  of  Shakefpeare’s  productions,  “ The  Tempeft.” 
Afterwards  “Antony  and  Cleopatra”  reappeared  in  a 
new  drefs,  as  “ All  for  Love,  or  the  World  Well 
Loft.”  I may  add,  that  while  Dryden  acknowledged 
•the  Ikill  and  power  of  the  elder  dramatifts  in  their 
tragedies,  for  their  comedies  he  entertained  a profound 
contempt.  They  were  fadly  deficient  in  the  intrigue 
and  indelicacy  that  fet  off  the  chafte  productions  of  Mr. 
Wycherley  and  his  collaborateurs  in  that  field. 

“The  Tempeft,”  under  the  hands  of  Dryden  and 
Davenant,  who  worked  together  at  this  congenial  talk, 
received  confiderable  additions,  and  underwent  many 
alterations.  Thus,  they  amended  the  plot  by  the  intro- 
duction of  two  or  three  new  characters,  in  order  that 
no  one  might  be  without  an  exaCt  match  with  whom 
they  might  precifely  correfpond.  Thus,  in  the  original 
play  we  have  Miranda,  the  daughter  of  Profpero,  a girl 
who  has  never  feen  a man  till  the  arrival  of  Ferdinand. 
They  add,  in  the  perfon  of  Hippolito,  a man  who  had 
never  feen  a woman.  This  Hippolito,  moreover,  in 
another  point  of  view,  ferves  as  a match  for  Pro- 


1 66  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 

fpero,  namely,  in  being  the  rightful  heir  to  the  dukedom 
of  Mantua,  as  Profpero  was  the  rightful  duke  of  Milan. 
Even  Caliban  is  confiderately  provided  with  a counter- 
part in  the  perfon  of  Sycorax,  his  filler.  By  this 
addition,  and  that  of  Dorinda,  a lifter  of  Miranda,  the 
effed  of  the  pidure  which  that  lonely  illand  with  its 
three  llrange  denizens  prefented,  is  ftudioully  weakened. 

The  palfages  interpolated  in  the  play  tend  to  enfeeble 
it  quite  as  much  as  the  new  charaders.  In  the  opening 
fcene,  for  inftanee,  the  failors  carry  on  a long  dialogue 
in  nautical  jargon,  unintelligible  to  ordinary  readers, 
and  the  objed  of  which  is,  I fuppofe,  to  give  it  a 
charaderiftic  colouring,  and  to  imprefs  the  mind  with 
a fenfe  of  the  extreme  peril  which  gives  rife  to  fuch 
confulion  and  fuch  a multiplicity  of  confliding  orders. 
In  the  original  thefe  ends  are  ferved  by  the  judicious 
ufe  of  a few  fea  terms,  which  mull  have  been  familiar 
to  moll  people  at  the  time,  and  by  the  contemptuous 
indifference  with  which  the  Ikipper  and  his  crew  in 
that  critical  moment  treat  the  illultrious  landfmen  who 
are  on  board.  Inftead  of  this  limple  and  effedive 
opening,  we  have  in  Dryden’s  edition  a protraded 
fcene,  in  which  fuch  diredions  as  thefe  fly  about: 
<c  man  the  cap-ftorm,”  “ cut  down  the  hammocks,” 
“ overhaul  the  fore-bowling,”  and  “ brace  the  larboard.” 
Thefe,  with  fuch  remarks  as  that  the  “ anchor’s  apeak,” 
and  that  it  is  blowing  a “ mackrel  gale,”  could  have 
had  but  little  other  effed  than  to  perplex  the  audience. 

I have  given  Dryden  the  firfl:  place  in  the  lift  of 
dramatifts  of  this  epoch,  lefs  in  compliment  to  his 
dramatic  power  than  in  deference  to  his  acknowledged 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


1 67 


fuperiority  in  other  departments  of  literature.  As  a 
dramatill,  at  leaA  one  name  mull  Hand  higher  on  the 
roll — that  of  Thomas  Otway,  the  author  of  “ The 
Orphan”  and  “ Venice  Preferved.”  Like  Dryden,  he  at 
fir  A patronifed  rhyme,  but  afterwards  changed  it  for 
blank  verfe,  under  the  influence  of  a long  courfe  of 
Shakefpearian  Audy.  Like  Dryden,  too,  he  firA  tried 
his  hand  at  adaptations  from  his  maAer.  In  “ Caius 
Marius” he  has  interpolated  whole fcenes  from  “ Romeo 
and  Juliet.”  It  is  chara&eriAic  of  the  tafte  of  the 
times,  that  the  fuccefs  of  the  play  of  “ Caius  Marius  ” 
was  fecured,  not  by  the  fublimer  paflages  extracted 
from  the  finifhed  production  of  Shakfpeare’s  genius,  in- 
cluding, for  inAance,  the  fcene  where  Juliet  pafles 
through  all  the  varying  phafes  of  horror  before  taking 
the  potion  and  entering  the  tomb  of  her  anceAors  : it 
owed  its  fuccefs  to  the  aCling  of  one  Mrs.  Nokes, 
in  the  chara&er  of  the  nurfe  ! 

Otway  caught  a great  deal  of  Shakfpeare’s  fpirit  from 
frequent  communing  with  him.  We  can  diAinClly 
trace  the  influence  of  this  intercourfe  in  the  play  of 
ie  Venice  Preferred,”  which,  being  a confpiracy  to 
overthrow  the  government  by  aflaflination,  bears  in 
many  paflages  a Ariking  refemblance  to  the  tone  and 
fentiment  pervading  “Julius  Caesar.”  It  would  have 
been  well  if  Otway  had  contented  himfelf  with  having 
caught  fome  of  his  maAer’s  infpiration,  and  had  re- 
frained from  repeating  fome  of  his  utterances  as  though 
they  were  his  own.  Thus,  in  the  play  of  “Venice 
Preferved,”  he  appropriates  the  beautiful  fentiment  of 
Brutus  that  among  patriots  oaths  are  not  neceflary. 


1 68 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


When  Pierre,  previous  to  enrolling  Jaffier  among  the 
confpirators,  bids  him  fwear  not  to  reveal  the  plot,  the 
latter  replies,  “ When  thou  wouldft  bind  me  is  there 
need  of  oaths  ? ” and  then  the  paflage  runs  on  in  feeble 
imitation  of  the  magnificent  apoftrophe  of  Brutus:  — 

“ No  ! Not  an  oath 

* * * * 

Swear  priefts,  and  cowards,  and  men  cautelous, 

Old  feeble  carrions,  and  fuch  fuffering  fouls 
That  welcome  wrongs  $ unto  bad  caufes  fwear 
Such  creatures  as  men  doubt : but  do  not  ftain 
The  even  virtue  of  our  enterprife, 

Nor  the  unfuppreflive  metal  of  our  fpirits, 

To  think  that  or  our  caufe  or  our  performance 
Did  need  an  oath.” 

Deeply  as  tragedy  and  ferious  comedy  had  fallen  from 
their  former  eftate  during  the  Reftoration  period,  the 
comic  drama  had  founded  (till  lower  depths.  The 
comic  dramatifts,  headed  by  the  profligate  Wycherley, 
fought  to  refledt  the  manners  of  that  degraded  time. 
Such  exhibitions  of  triumphant  vice  were  Blocking,  as 
Macaulay  remarks,  not  fo  much  for  their  impurity  as 
their  inhuman  fpirit.  That  writer  obferves  finely  : 
“ We  find  ourfelves  in  a world  in  which  the  ladies  are 
like  very  profligate,  impudent,  and  unfeeling  men,  and 
in  which  the  men  are  too  bad  for  any  place  but  Pande- 
monium or  Norfolk  Ifland.  We  are  furrounded  by 
foreheads  of  bronze,  hearts  like  the  nether  millflone, 
and  tongues  fet  on  fire  of  hell.’’  How  long  this  flate 
of  things  would  have  lailed,  if  left  to  itfelf,  it  is  hard 
to  fay ; the  evil  might  have  been  gradually  corrected  by 
the  influence  of  advancing  civilization.  However,  the 
reformation  of  the  Englifh  ftage  was  haftened,  if  not 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


169 

brought  about,  by  the  appearance  of  the  “ Short  View 
of  the  Profanenefs  and  Immorality  of  the  Englifh 
Stage,”  from  the  pen  of  Jeremy  Collier,  an  Anglican 
clergyman.  Wycherley,  Congreve,  Farquhar  and  Dry- 
den,  were  affailed  by  Collier  with  unfparing  but  well- 
merited  feverity.  The  people  fided  againft  the  priefts 
of  Baal,  and  his  worfhip  was  henceforward  profcribed. 
Since  that  time  the  Englifh  ftage  has  been  remarkably 
free  from  the  taint  of  impurity. 

French  tafles  affeded  not  only  the  moral  tone,  but 
the  verification  and  the  general  plan  of  our  drama; 
the  one  by  fubftituting  the  trim,  well-cut  garb  of  rhyme 
for  the  flowing  and  majeftic  robe  of  blank  verfe ; the 
other  by  introducing  a code  of  pedantic  rules,  which 
every  “ corred”  drama  fhould  obey.  The  chief  of 
thefe  was  the  obfervance  of  the  “ unities  ” of  time, 
place,  and  adion.  The  molt  perfed  fpecimen  of  a play 
framed  on  this  model  is  Addifon’s  “ Cato,”  hailed  by 
cotemporary  French  critics  as  the  ne  plus  ultra  of 
dramatic  excellence.  It  has,  however,  been  long  flnce 
condemned  as  frigid  and  artificial,  and  no  more  worthy 
of  comparifon  with  one  of  Shakefpeare’s  Roman  plays 
than  a bronze  flatue  with  a living,  moving,  human  form. 

The  heartleffnefs  of  the  Refloration  drama  difap- 
peared  foon  after  the  publication  of  Collier’s  “ Short 
View  a powerful  readion  fet  in,  and  as  ufually  hap- 
pens, men  rufhed  into  the  oppofite  extreme.  From 
ridiculing  the  idea  of  the  exiftence  of  natural  feeling, 
they  fell  into  the  depths  of  an  exaggerated  fentimentalifm. 
From  refilling  nothing  but  the  coariefl  buffoonery,  they 
fuddenly  loit  a tafte  for  anything  but  the  deepefl 
melancholy.  An  invitation  to  the  theatre  was  equiva- 


1 70 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


lent  to  faying  as  Nero  ufed  to  his  friends,  “ Come 
let  us  be  miferable  together.”  “ During  fome  years,” 
fays  Macaulay,  “ more  tears  were  fhed  at  comedies  than 
at  tragedies.” 

In  this  lachrymofe  Hate  of  the  popular  tafte,  when 
people  were  revelling  in  all  the  luxury  of  woe,  a 
countryman  of  ours,  one  Oliver  Goldfmith,  ventured  to 
write  a comedy  containing  fome  fcenes  of  irreflfhible 
drollery,  and  fome  inimitable  ftrokes  of  humour.  The 
play  was  called  the  “ Good-natured  Man.”  Garrick 
was  then  the  leflee  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  ; and  well 
knowing  the  mournful  call  of  the  public  mind,  dif- 
creetly  declined  a piece  that  admitted  fo  unfafhionable 
an  element  as  wit  or  fun.  It  was,  however,  produced 
at  a lefs  ariftocratic  houfe,  Colman’s  theatre,  in  Covent 
Garden,  where  it  met  with  fome  little  fuccefs  with  an 
audience  not  fo  deeply  tinged  with  the  fafhionable 
melancholy  as  the  patrons  of  Drury  Lane.  But  the 
empire  of  fadnefs  was,  neverthelefs,  near  its  end.  Five 
years  after  the  produ&ion  of  the  “ Good-natured  Man,” 
public  favour  was  fairly  taken  by  ftorm  by  that  “in- 
comparable farce  in  five  a£ts,”  as  Macaulay  ftyles  the 
play  of  “ She  Stoops  to  Conquer.”  The  genefis  of  the 
play  is  curious.  It  happened  that  Goldfmith  was 
going  on  a vifit  to  the  houfe  of  an  Englifh  country 
gentleman,  and  not  having  the  organ  of  locality  ftrongly 
developed,  feems  to  have  loft  all  confcioufnefs  of  his 
whereabouts.  Night  coming  on,  he  made  for  the 
neareft  inn,  and  entered  a comfortable  and  fpacious 
edifice  that  feemed  to  anfwer  that  defcription.  He 
ordered  and  partook  of  refrefhments,  but  foon  found  to 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


171 

his  horror,  that  he  had  milraken  a hatchment  for  a flgn, 
and  a manfion  for  a common  hoftelry.  This  incident 
Goldfmith  has  worked  np  into  a moft  amufing  play, 
the  hero  of  which  makes  the  fame  blunder,  and  though 
very  bafliful  in  prefence  of  women  of  birth  and  edu- 
cation,^ gifted  with  a fuperabundance  of  flippancy,  wit, 
and  impudence,  in  his  intercourfe  with  thofe  of  a lower 
grade.  Under  thefe  circumftances,  he  makes  ftrong 
love  to  the  daughter  of  his  hoft,  whom  he  miftakes  for 
a waitrefs,  and  fhe  being  rather  partial  to  him,  takes  care 
to  let  him  remain  under  the  delufion  till  he  has  gone 
too  far  to  withdraw,  and  thus  the  marriage,  which  was 
her  father’s  darling  objedl,  is  brought  about.  As  a fpeci- 
men  of  the  humour  of  the  play,  I may  read  a paflage. 

Mr.  Hardcaftle,  the  father  of  the  heroine,  being  a 
plain  country  gentleman,  and  of  a retiring  difpofltion, 
is  not  in  the  habit  of  feeing  much  company.  Being 
anxious,  however,  to  receive  the  fon  of  his  old  friend 
in  becoming  ftyle,  he  drills  his  houfe  and  farm  fervants 
for  fome  days  before  the  arrival  of  his  guefls. 

e e Enter  Hardcaftle, followed  by  three  or  four  awkward  fervants. 

Hard.  Well,  I hope  you’re  perfedl  in  the  table  exercife  I have 
been  teaching  you  thefe  three  days.  You  all  know  your  polls  and 
places,  and  can  fhow  you  have  been  ufed  to  good  company  without 
flirring  from  home. 

Omnes.  Ay,  ay. 

Hard.  When  company  comes,  you  are  not  to  pop  out  and  flare, 
and  then  run  in,  like  rabbits  in  a warren. 

Omnes.  No,  no. 

Hard.  You,  Diggory,  whom  I have  taken  from  the  barn,  are  to 
make  a fhow  at  the  fide  table  j and  you,  Roger,  whom  I have 
advanced  from  the  plough,  are  to  place  yourfelf  behind  my  chair. 
But  you’re  not  to  Hand  fo,  with  your  hands  in  your  pockets.  Take 


\J2 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


your  hands  from  your  pockets,  Roger,  and  from  your  head,  yon  block- 
head, you.  See  how  Diggory  carries  his  hands.  They’re  a little 
too  ftiff  indeed,  but  that’s  no  great  matter. 

Digg.  Ay,  mind  how  / hold  them.  I learned  to  hold  my 
hands  this  way  when  I was  upon  drill  for  the  militia.  And  fo, 
being  upon  drill  — 

Hard . You  muft  not  be  fo  talkative,  Diggory.  You  muft  be 
all  attention  to  the  guefts.  You  muft  hear  us  talk,  and  not  think 
of  talking;  you  muft  fee  us  drink,  and  not  think  of  drinking  ; you 
muft  fee  us  eat,  and  not  think  of  eating. 

Digg . By  the  laws,  your  worfhip,  that  perfedtly  #«poftible  ; 
whenever  Diggory  fees  yeating  going  forward,  egad,  he’s  always 
wilhing  for  a mouthful  himfelf.” 

In  thus  refcuing  the  drama  from  its  hate  of  hypo- 
chondria, and  bringing  it  back  to  nature,  Goldfmith 
was  affifted  by  another  countryman  of  ours.  What 
“ The  Good-natured  Man,”  and  “ She  Stoops  to  Con- 
quer,” began,  “ The  Rivals,”  and  “ The  School  for 
Scandal,”  completed.  Richard  Brinfley  Sheridan  was 
almoft  born  a dramatift.  His  father  had  been  an  adtor, 
his  mother  was  an  authorefs,  and  his  whole  life  was 
one  long  romance.  It  would  have  been  ftrange,  there- 
fore, if  he  had  not  been  led  to  throw  fome  of  his  ex- 
periences into  a dramatic  fhape.  He  did  fo  in  “ The 
Rivals.”  It  happened  that  when  at  Bath  he  was  in- 
troduced to  Mifs  Linley,  the  daughter  of  a celebrated 
compofer.  She  was  a woman  of  great  beauty,  po  fie  fled 
of  a voice  of  rare  quality,  and  had  already  won  con- 
fiderable  reputation  as  a vocalift.  She  was  accordingly 
the  centre  of  a large  circle  of  admirers,  wealthy  and 
high-born,  many  of  them.  But  Sheridan’s  youth,  and 
brilliant  talents,  and  fafcinating  manner,  foon  diftanced 
all  his  competitors,  and  Mifs  Linley  became  fecretly 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


173 


engaged  to  him.  At  this  time  a gentleman,  named 
Matthews,  addrefled  her  in  a manner  calculated  to 
aroufe  the  indignation  of  a lefs  ardent  lover  and  a lefs 
quick-tempered  man  than  Sheridan.  He  challenged 
Matthews ; they  fought  with  fwords,  Sheridan  difarmed 
his  antagonift  and  compelled  him  to  beg  his  life,  and 
publifh  an  apology  in  the  Bath  papers.  Matthews  then 
retired  into  private  life.  But  his  friends  fo  taunted 
him  that  he  once  more  broke  cover,  and  challenged 
Sheridan.  For  the  fecond  time  they  fought.  Sheridan 
endeavouring  to  repeat  a manoeuvre  that  ferved  him  in 
the  former  encounter,  unfortunately  laid  himfelf  open 
to  attack,  and  received  a wound  which  would  have 
been  fatal  but  that  his  adverfary’s  fword  broke  in  the 
thruft.  At  the  fame  time  Sheridan’s  weapon  met  with 
a fimilar  accident.  The  combatants  then  clofed  in  a 
ftruggle,  and  fought  defperately  with  the  broken  points. 
They  fell  together,  Matthews  being  uppermoft.  Sheri- 
dan’s life  was  now  in  turn  at  his  adverfary’s  mercy ; 
but  when  called  on  to  beg  for  it,  he  refufed  to  do  fo  in 
language  more  emphatic  than  reverential.  The  feconds 
interfered ; and  Matthews,  who  does  not  feem  to  have 
fought  any  more  encounters  with  the  pugnacious  Irilh- 
man,  left  him  and  his  young  wife  in  peace. 

It  is  upon  this  incident  that  Sheridan  has  founded 
t€  The  Rivals;”  the  firft,  and,  after  “The  School  for 
Scandal,”  the  moll  fuccefsful  of  his  dramas.  Thefe 
two  plays  are  the  moft  popular  of  all  dramatic  works 
compofed  fince  Shakefpeare’s  time.  They  are  valuable 
in  the  higheft  degree  as  perpetuating  the  manners  of  the 
time.  In  this  refpedl  they  may  be  compared  with 


174 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


Shakefpeare’s  “ Merry  Wives  of  Windfor,”  and  the 
comedies  of  Jonfon  and.  Wycherley  generally.  They 
have,  however,  the  great  fault  of  exaggeration.  Such 
utter  poltroonery  as  that  of  Bob  Acres,  and  fuch  elabo- 
rate blundering  as  that  of  Mrs.  Malaprop  were  furely 
never  feen. 

We  have  now  traced  the  drama  down  to  the  opening 
of  the  prefent  century.  On  looking  back  over  its 
hiftory  we  lhall  fee  that  in  the  main  it  followed  the 
order  of  development  which  the  eloquent  and  philo- 
fophic  ledurer  who  lately  addrelfed  us  pointed  out  as 
that  which  a national  literature  mull  follow.  Pafling 
by  the  facred  drama,  the  drama  of  religious  narrative 
and  moral  allegory,  we  come  firft  to  the  drama  of  heroic 
adion,  and  well  defined  character,  as  typified  by  Shake- 
fpeare.  Next  comes  the  drama  of  violent  paflion  and 
fcandalous  intrigue,  borrowed  from  France,  which  is 
reprefen  ted  by  Dry  den  and  Wycherley.  Next  to  that 
the  drama  of  fentiment.  After  this  came  the  revolt  of 
Goldfmith  and  Sheridan  againft  this  unnatural  manner  : 
and  they  have  been  feconded  by  fuch  writers  as  Sir  E. 
B.  Lytton  in  his  plays  of  “ Money  99  and  of  the  “ Lady 
of  Lyons.”  But,  according  to  the  order  laid  down  by 
Mr.  Byrne,  we  fhould  now  be  in  that  ftage  of  the 
drama  when  external  nature  forms  its  main  fubjed. 

Has  the  order  of  development  been  preferved  with 
refped  to  the  drama,  as  well  as  with  refped  to  every 
other  branch  of  literature?  At  firft  fight  nothing  ap- 
pears a lefs  appropriate  fubjed  for  dramatic  treatment 
than  the  beauties  of  nature.  The  proper  ftudy  of  the 
dramatift  is  not  things,  but  men,  adion  and  charader : 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


175 


thefe  ought  to  be  his  theme.  Hence  the  age  of  Shake- 
fpeare  was  the  moll  favourable  for  the  growth  of  the 
drama,  becaufe  that  was  the  time  in  which  our  litera- 
ture was  palfing  from  the  llage  of  adlion  to  the  ftage  of 
chara&er,  and  thus  combined  both. 

Neverthelefs,  the  drama  has  fuccumbed  to  the  in- 
fluence, though  it  has  been  longer  in  yielding  to  it. 
What  is  the  great  charadleriftic  of  dramatic  reprefenta- 
tion  now?  Scenic  effedl.  This  is  the  meaning  of  the 
expreflion,  “ The  Senfation  Drama.”  A drama  is  fuc- 
cefsful  now  in  proportion  as  it  prefents  not  fo  much  an 
ingenious  and  interefting  plot ; not  fo  much  as  it  por- 
trays or  develops  character;  but  as  it  furnifhes  fome 
flriking  fltuations  which  can  be  reprefented  to  the  eye 
of  the  fpe&ator.  The  ftage  has  become  the  home,  not 
of  the  drama,  but  of  the  diorama.  Fortunes  are  lavifhed 
on  magnificent  fcenery,  and  years  are  fpent  on  archaeo- 
logical inveftigation  refpe&ing  coftume  and  furniture, 
as  though  one  went  to  ftudy  tranfient  manners  and 
cuftoms,  and  not  the  abiding  fadls  of  human  nature. 
This  feems  to  me  to  be  a Angular  mifapprehenfion  re- 
fpe&ing  the  effedl  produced  by  fcenery,  drefles,  and 
decorations.  What  is  their  objedl  ? Merely  to  ftrengthen 
the  illufion.  How  is  this  to  be  done  ? Is  it  by  repro- 
ducing the  fcene  in  its  minute  accuracy?  Not  at  all  : 
but  by  removing  everything  that  may  tend  to  remind 
us  of  the  unreal  nature  of  the  reprefentation,  and  draw 
off  our  attention  from  the  human  element  in  the  drama. 
Now  the  nature  of  the  mife  en  fcene  depends  altogether 
on  the  audience.  If  they  are  learned  in  ancient  cof- 
tumes,  they  will  be  fhocked  at  any  incongruity  in  this 


176  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


refpeft.  If  not,  all  that  needs  be  done  is  to  provide 
that  fcenery  and  coftume  which  belt  accord  with  their 
notion  of  the  characters  and  period  of  the  play.  Thus, 
before  a claflical  audience,  it  would  be  a miftake  not  to 
reprefent  a Roman  play  with  all  the  propriety  of  which 
it  is  capable  of  being  put  on  the  ftage ; but  before  an 
audience  ignorant  of  the  coftume  of  a Roman  fenator, 
it  would  be  as  great  a miftake  to  exhibit  him  in  toga 
and  fandals.  In  both  cafes  the  attention  of  the  beholder 
would  be  diftracled  from  the  real  objeCt  of  the  fpe&acle  : 
and  in  both  its  effeCt  would  therefore  be  weakened. 

The  prelent  age,  then,  is  the  age  of  dramatic  fpec- 
tacle.  Never  was  the  art  of  theatrical  carpentry  carried 
to  fuch  perfe&ion.  If  the  “ Sampfon  Agoniftes  ” were 
put  upon  the  ftage  at  the  prefent  day,  inftead’of  the 
magnificent  defcription  given  of  the  deftruCtion  of  the 
theatre  and  the  death  of  Sampfon,  this  would  form  the 
fenfation  fcene.  They  have  learned  to  reprefent  every- 
thing to  the  life,  even  ghofts ! Thefe  are  no  longer 
mere  vulgar  fupernumeraries  daubed  with  flour  and  red 
ochre.  They  are  now  unfubftantial,  tranfparent  as  a 
cloud  of  vapour,  only  more  fugacious,  and  lefs  fuf- 
ceptible  of  derangement  in  their  form.  They  not 
only  appear  unaccountably,  and  myfterioufly  vanifh, 
but  they  walk,  and  even  talk,  to  the  great  horror  and 
fatisfaCtion  of  the  fpe&ators.* 

* Thefe  fpe&res  as  yet  frequent  the  minor  theatres  only,  and 
have  not  yet  reached  the  falhionable  haunts  of  Her  Majefty’s  or 
Drury  Lane.  The  Times  has  devoted  an  article  to  one  of  them, 
and  the  other  papers  have  followed  fuit.  A very  good  idea  of  the 
drama  of  “ Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,”  in  which  this  fhadowy 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


1 77 


It  formed  no  part  of  my  plan  in  this  ledlure  to  dif- 
cufs  the  queftion  of  theatrical  reprefentations  : the 
drama  in  its  literary  afpedl  alone  coming  properly  within 

appearance  plays  a prominent  part,  may  be  formed  from  the  follow- 
ing defcription  extracted  from  a London  weekly  paper : — 

“ On  our  front  page  we  give  an  engraving  of  the  Ghoft  Scene 
in  the  drama  of  ‘Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,’  which  is  nightly 
drawing  a crowded  audience  to  the  Britannia.  It  is  a domeftic  drama 
(fays  the  Spectator ),  with  three  murders,  one  fuicide,  two  con- 
flagrations, four  robberies,  one  virtuous  lawyer,  twenty- three  angels, 
and  a ghoft.  There  are  three  heroines  in  the  piece — Faith,  Hope, 
and  Charity — the  firft,  an  elderly  lady,  widow  of  a clergyman,  and 
in  ftraitened  circumftances  5 and  the  other  two,  her  daughters, 
pretty  and  poor,  and  of  courfe  models  of  perfection,  as  indicated 
by  the  label.  The  plot  turns  upon  the  pofleflion  of  the  leafe  of  a 
houfe,  which  Sir  Gilbert  Northlaw,  a proud  and  fcheming  baronet, 
clafs  reprefentative  of  the  bloated  ariftocracy,  has  acquired  by  fraud 
from  the  clerical  widow.  Before  the  parchment  is  reftored  to  the 
right  owner  a number  of  violent  incidents  take  place,  which, 
although  in  no  perceptible  connection  with  the  ftory,  yet  feem  to 
charm  the  audience  to  an  immenfe  degree,  as  evinced  by  frequent 
thundering  applaufe.  A burning  houfe,  in  particular,  gives  rife  to 
tremendous  excitement  in  the  gallery.  The  fcene  fhows  a woman 
getting  out  of  the  window  and  walking  along  the  outer  ledge  to  a 
tree,  where  a man  takes  her  in  his  arms,  after  whichj  the  tree, 
by  fome  magic  means,  bows  to  the  ground  with  its  human  burden. 
Various  minor  accidents,  murders,  and  manflaughter  follow,  till  at 
length  the  leafe  is  ftolen  by  an  honeft  man  from  the  pocket  of  the 
wicked  baronet.  With  a fine  feeling  of  virtue,  the  audience  fliow 
their  appreciation  of  this  aCt  of  pickpocketing  by  three  rounds  of 
applaufe.  But  the  ariftocratic  villain  is  not  yet  defeated  5 for  it 
turns  out  that  the  leafe  which  the  honeft  man  has  ftolen  is  but  a 
duplicate  after  all,  and  that  the  fiendifli  nobleman  remains  in  pofi- 
feflion  of  the  original.  This  difcovery  breaks  the  heart  of  Faith, 
and  fets  Hope  and  Charity  a-crying  fo  loud  that  all  the  byftanders 
get  into  convulfions.  The  queftion  of  the  leafe  appears  ftill  as 
undecided  as  ever  when  the  curtain  falls  over  the  terreftrial  part  of 


N 


178  THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA . 


the  fcope  of  a le6ture  delivered  in  this  place.  I have, 
therefore,  introduced  thefe  remarks  only  for  the  pur- 
pofe  of  enabling  us  to  underhand  what  future  the 

the  drama,  to  open  again,  after  a few  minutes’  interval,  for  the 
fpiritual  portion.  All  the  fouls  of  all  the  people  murdered,  flain, 
burned,  and  bruifed  in  the  new  and  original  drama  are  now  carried 
up  to  heaven  by  a regiment  of  little  angels  in  flaxen  hair  and  fhort 
petticoats.  Midway  between  heaven  and  earth  they  make  a halt, 
which  allows  time  for  the  infpedlion  of  the  tableau  and  the  due 
feafoning  of  the  mind  in  its  contemplation.  It  is  evident  that  the 
impreffion  created  upon  the  audience  is  of  the  deepeft,  preparing  all 
eyes  and  ears  for  the  ftill  greater  things  to  come.  There  are  now 
no  more  difcharges  of  ginger-beer  artillery  from  above  and  behind, 
the  fucking  of  oranges  and  cracking  of  nuts  has  entirely  ceafed, 
and  even  the  numerous  babies  have  left  off  crying.  Prefently,  the 
vaft  houfe  finks  into  obfcurity,  only  a few  flickering  gas  jets  being 
left  here  and  there  to  create  a faint  twilight.  Once  again  Sir 
Gilbert  Northlaw  fteps  upon  the  ftage,  clofely  followed  by — a Ike- 
leton.  The  apparition  is  certainly  ftriking.  It  gradually  and 
almofi:  imperceptibly  evolves  itfelf  out  of  the  air,  and  after  various 
movements  vanifhes  with  the  rapidity  of  a flafh  of  lightning.  A 
fecond  time  it  comes  and  goes  as  before,  and  immediately  after 
appears  a female  form,  the  exadt  counterpart  of  Faith,  the  widow. 
Clofely  as  the  eye  may  watch  the  operation  of  the  whole  pro- 
ceeding, it  is  impoflible  to  detedt  the  fource  of  the  fine  optical  delu- 
fion.  There  the  figure  certainly  ftands,  walks,  and  talks,  but 
difappears  as  inftantaneoufly  as  if  falhioned  out  of  the  mere  vapour 
of  the  air.  On  the  fecond  appearance  of  Widow  Faith,  or  rather 
of  Widow  Faith’s  ghoft,  Sir  Gilbert  Northlaw  takes  courage,  and, 
riling  from  his  feat,  attacks  her  with  the  fword.  But  the  lharp 
fteel,  aimed  at  a walking  and  fpeaking  human  figure,  meets  no 
refiftance  but  the  empty  air,  as  Ihown  in  our  illuftration,  and  the 
would-be  murderer  is  mocked  by  a loud  fardonic  6 Ha,  ha,  ha!’ 
This  is  the  crifis  of  the  fpedlacle.  While  the  baronet  is  making 
defperate  efforts  to  grafp  the  widow,  the  fpedtre  vanilhes  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  leaving  the  echo  of  a mocking  voice  refound- 
ing from  afar.*’ 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


179 


drama  has  before  it  in  a literary  point  of  view.  And 
this,  I think,  is  not  at  all  hopeful.  The  higheit  type  of 
dramatic  compofition  is  that  which  fupplies  us  with 
ftudies  of  character,  fkilfully  worked  out,  in  a plot  not 
deficient  in  probability,  and  by  means  of  incidents  not 
wanting  in  intereft.  It  is  clear  that  fo  long  as  the 
public  appetite  for  fenfation  epifodes  continues,  and  fo 
long  as  thefe  epifodes  are  capable  of  being  exhibited 
vifibly,  there  is  no  neceffity  for  any  but  the  molt  fuper- 
ficial  delineations  of  character,  and  no  room  left  for 
any  appeal  to  the  imagination.  From  this  it  follows 
that  while  the  prevalent  tafte  lafts,  the  drama  will 
languifh.  as  a literary  production.  Whatever  power  of 
depicting  character  and  defcribing  incident  exifts  at  the 
prefent  day — and  it  exifts  in  fuperabundance — will  be 
diverted  into  the  channel  of  novel-writing,  and  will 
not  enter  that  of  dramatic  compofition  at  all.  How- 
ever, as  our  literature  is  already  fo  rich  in  this  depart- 
ment, we  need  not  lament  the  deficiency. 

The  tafk  which  I fet  before  me  is  now  accomplifhed 
fo  far  as  my  feeble  powers  and  limited  time  permitted. 
If  I have  fucceeded  in  conveying  to  any  one  here  an 
idea  of  the  importance  of  the  fubjeCt,  and  awakening  an 
intereft  in  it,  the  interval  we  have  palled  together  in 
reviewing  the  hiftory  of  the  Englifh  drama,  will  not 
have  been  unprofitably  fpent. 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  THE 


LATE  JOHN  FOSTER, 

THE  ESSAYIST. 

BY  THE  REV.  EDWARD  WHATELY,  M.A. 


r 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  THE 

LATE  JOHN  FOSTER. 

DARE  fay  there  are  many  here  prefent 
who  have  never  fo  much  as  heard  of  the 
name  of  John  Fofter ; and  I am  aware 
that  I might  eafily  be  reprefented  as  in- 
judicious in  feledting  fuch  an  author,  on  the  grounds 
that  he  is  neither  fufficiently  well  known,  nor  fufficiently 
pre-eminent  in  point  of  ability,  to  render  him  a worthy 
fubjedt  for  a le&ure,  when  there  are  fo  many  who  are 
more  deferving  of  fuch  a diftin&ion.  But  it  is  fome- 
times  ufeful  to  depart  from  the  beaten  track;  and  one 
of  my  objects  on  the  prefent  occafion  will  be  to  bring 
before  your  notice  a writer  who,  though  perhaps  he 
may  be  inferior  to  many  whom  I might  have  chofen, 
was  neverthelefs  a man  of  no  mean  powers,  and  whofe 
works  (at  all  events  his  Effays),  if  thoughtfully  ftudied, 
could  not  fail  to  prove  beneficial  to  many  at  the  prefent 
age,  and  in  fome  meafure  to  furnifh  an  antidote  to  that 
feverifh  excitement  in  which  people  now  live,  by  leading 
them  to  fober  refle&ion,  felf-examination,  and  introfpec- 
tion. 


1 84  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


But  it  is  not  merely  for  his  own  fake  that  I have 
chofen  John  Fofter  for  my  fubjeCt.  I have  feleCted  him 
in  a great  meafure  becaufe  I mean  to  make  him  a pin 
upon  which  to  hang  my  own  reflections.  I muft  alfo 
foreftall  another  objection  to  which  I may  lay  myfelf 
open,  by  forewarning  you  that  this  leCture  will  be  rather 
a defultory  one ; a fault  however,  which,  in  the  eyes 
of  fome  people,  aflumes  the  character  of  a virtue ; and 
which,  I believe,  has  at  lealt  this  recommendation,  that 
it  is  popular  with  ladies,  if  not  with  gentlemen.  At 
all  events,  in  the  prefent  cafe  I cannot  very  well  help 
myfelf.  For  the  life  of  John  Fofter  is  too  fmall  a fub- 
jeCt,  and  his  Eflays  too  large  a one,  (or  rather  comprifes 
too  many  fubjeCts,)  to  render  it  poflible  for  me  to  give 
an  air  of  anything  like  unity  to  this  leCture.  His  life 
is  indeed  almoft  entirely  devoid  of  any  incident  worthy 
of  record ; it  is  the  life  of  a quiet  fecluded  Diflenting 
minifter,  who  fhrunk  from  mixing  in  the  bufy  world 
around  him  ; and  it  is  rendered  ftill  more  meagre  from 
the  faCt  that  his  biographer  appears  to  have  wanted 
either  the  power,  or  the  will,  to  give  any  accurate  de- 
lineation of  his  character,  fo  that  we  are  compelled  in 
a great  meafure  to  trace  that  character  for  ourfelves  out 
of  his  Letters  and  Eflays,  occafionally  making  ufe  of  fuch 
ftray  hints  on  the  fubjeCt  as  we  may  receive  from  other 
fources.  But  this  may  be  indeed  no  uninterefting  or 
unprofitable  occupation.  It  is  interefting  to  endeavour 
to  trace  the  man  in  his  writings,  to  go  back  to  his  life, 
and  to  fee  what  particular  training,  external  and  internal, 
and  what  peculiar  call  of  mind,  tended  to  produce  the 
work  which  has  attracted  our  attention,  and  to  ftamp 


OF  JOHN  FOSTER. 


85 


that  work  with  its  attradlive  character.  Where  the 
writer  is  a mere  book-maker,  as  is  the  cafe  with  too 
many  writers  of  the  prefen t day,  it  is  of  courfe  impolhble 
to  do  this,  becaufe  in  that  cafe  the  book  does  not  really 
reflect  the  man.  His  own  mind  and  life  bear  no  tefti- 
mony  to  the  truths  he  inculcates,  and  conlequently  thofe 
truths  fall  lifelefs  upon  the  reader’s  ear,  as  being  the  mere 
cold  calculations  of  reafon,  or  as  plants  gleaned  from 
the  mind  of  another,  which  have  died  when  tranfplanted 
into  an  uncongenial  foil.  Far  otherwife  was  it  with 
John  Fofter:  in  his  Effays  it  appears  as  if  the  whole 
mind  and  heart  and  foul  of  the  author  had  gone  forth 
into  his  writings,  and  it  is  this  feature  which  conftitutes 
their  peculiar  charm,  and  which  gives  them  that  peculiar 
weight  which  each  fentence  feems  to  carry  with  it ; 
and  it  is  no  common-place  character  which  his  works 
difplay.  It  is  not  indeed  a charadler  which  has  many 
fides  to  it,  or  which  would  furnifh  the  materials  for  a 
long  and  interefting  biography.  No,  it  is  made  up  of  a 
few  touches,  bold,  vigorous,  and  more  llrongly  marked 
than  the  charadteriftic  features  of  moll  other  men’s 
minds.  The  leading  feature  of  his  mind  was  earnell- 
nefs  and  intenfity,  produced  by  a vivid,  powerful,  and 
fometimes  morbid  imagination,  and  by  a remarkable 
tendency  to  concentrate  the  attention  on  certain  objedls 
of  interefl,  which  his  imagination  clothed  with  an  awful 
grandeur  and  a Hern  folemnity.  This  dilpofition, 
combined  with  a habit  of  looking  inwards  rather 
than  outwards,  and  foftered  by  his  early  education, 
tended  to  reprefs  in  him  all  outward  exprelfion  of 
thought  or  feeling,  and  mull  have  had  the  efFedl  in  a 


86 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


degree  of  ifolating  him  from  his  fellow-creatures.  Some 
clergyman  in  fpeaking  of  him  once  defcribed  him  as  a 
man  without  a heart.  There  could  not  have  been  a 
more  falfe  alfertion  than  this.  His  Letters  (not  to  fay 
his  Eflays)  fhow  a very  large  heart;  but  the  miftake 
probably  arofe  from  the  fad  that  his  powers  of  fym- 
pathy  were  not  great.  He  himfelf  remarks  of  himfelf 
that  when  any  important  idea  had  taken  hold  on  his 
mind  he  could  not  get  rid  of  it,  it  ftill  clung  to  him 
when  others  who  for  the  time  had  been  forcibly  im- 
prefled  by  it,  had  forgotten  it  and  had  gone  off  to  fome 
other  fubjed.  This  difpofttion  of  mind  muft  in  fome 
meafure  have  cut  him  off  from  that  genial  intercourfe 
with  his  fellow-creatures,  that  interchange  of  mind 
with  mind  in  fmall  matters,  which  conneds  fociety 
together.  From  his  thoughts  being  continually  ab- 
forbed  on  the  higheft  fubjeds  he  mult  have  unduly  de- 
preciated trifles,  as  was  evident  from  the  fad  of  his 
preaching  in  a blue  coat  and  top  boots,  and  brafs  buttons. 
One  of  the  mofl  eloquent  paflages  in  his  Eflays,  which 
I have  not  time  to  quote,  but  which  I flrongly  recom- 
mend to  your  perufal,  feems  to  fhow  exadly  what 
manner  of  fpirit  he  was  of  with  refped  to  thofe  fub- 
jeds which  abforb  the  whole  energy  and  rivet  the 
whole  attention  of  many  of  the  triflers  of  this  world. 

* * # * * # 

A moft  forcible  and  juft  appeal ; but  yet  it  may 
fairly  be  doubted  whether  the  author  (judging  from  the 
general  caft  of  his  mind,  and  from  the  fcattered  traits  of 
charader  which  we  may  gather  from  his  life)  was  fuffi- 
ciently  alive  to  the  fad  that  we  muft  be  children  before 


OF  JOHN  FOSTER. 


187 


we  can  become  men ; indeed,  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  the  occafional  power  of  trifling  may  not  be  ne- 
ceflary,  in  order  to  keep  up  the  focial  amenities  of  life, 
and  to  adt  as  a bridge  from  mind  to  mind,  by  which 
we  may  arrive  at  greater  and  deeper  points  of  fym- 
pathy;  befides  which,  the  mind  needs  relaxation.  Now 
mere  intellectual  relaxation  does  not  give  it  fuflicient 
reft,  or,  in  other  words,  is  not  a full  and  entire  re- 
laxation. Certain  periods  of  dullnefs  and  apathy  will 
unbend  fome  minds,  but  it  is  not  all  who  are  capable  of 
this  fort  of  relief.  Others  fly  to  fenfual  enjoyment 
as  a paftime ; but  in  this  cafe  the  remedy  is  worle  than 
the  difeafe.  Again,  held  fports  are  reforted  to  by  fome, 
but  thefe  are  open  only  to  one  fex,  and  not  to  all  even 
of  them  ; confequently  a certain  amount  of  trifling  may 
be  abfolutely  neceflary  in  fome  cafes,  to  preferve  the 
health  of  the  mind,  only  we  muft  take  care  that  it  is 
not  foolifh  or  hurtful  trifling.  We  muft  bear  in  mind 
the  Apoftle’s  injunction,  “ Whatever  we  do  to  do  all 
to  the  glory  of  God.”  If  we  bring  this  principle  to 
bear  on  every  part  of  our  life,  we  fliall  find  that  thofe 
very  things  which  formerly  fhut  out  the  religious  life 
from  our  view,  now  minifter  to  its  nourifhment,  for 
after  all,  that  life  being  the  life  not  only  of  a perfeCt  man, 
but  alfo  of  the  only  complete  pattern  of  humanity 
(even  Chrift)  muft  be  coincident  with  every  part  of  our 
natural  life  which  does  not  partake  of  fin  ; it  is,  in  fadt, 
the  fubftance,  of  which  the  other  is  only  the  fhadow. 

But  to  return  to  John  Fofter.  His  mind  had  appa- 
rently no  power  of  relaxing  itfelf ; there  was  no  coun- 
teracting influence — until  his  latter  years,  when  he 


1 8 8 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


became  a hufband  and  a father — which  could  foften 
down  the  ftern  edges  of  his  chara&er,  or  enable  him  to 
unbend  himfelf.  Though  not  devoid  of  thefenfe  of  the 
ludicrous,  he  did  not  poffefs  enough  of  it  to  lighten  the 
preffure  which  a ftrong  feeling  of  the  ills  of  life,  both 
moral  and  focial,  continually  impofed  upon  his  fpirit. 
This  difpodtion  is  generally  very  ftrong  in  powerful  and 
earned;  minds,  and  was  doubtlefs  bellowed  on  them  for 
wife  purpofes.  And  we  believe  indeed  that  it  has  tended 
very  often  to  preferve  their  life  and  reafon.  It  was  not, 
however,  vivid  enough,  in  Fofter’s  cafe,  to  balance  his 
more  ferious  impreflions,  and  the  glowing  images  which 
accompanied  them.  Confequently,  at  one  period  of  his 
life,  his  reafon  (at  lead;  fo  I have  been  told)  gave  way. 

But  the  number  of  thofe  who  require  to  be  warned 
againft  the  peculiar  dangers  which  befet  his  mind,  is  not 
great.  It  is  not  againft  morbid  earneftnefs , but  againft 
indifference  to  the  higheft  fubjedls,  that  the  greater  portion 
of  mankind  require  to  be  cautioned.  And  againft  this  fort 
of  indifference  the  chara£ler  and  writings  of  John  Fofter 
afford  a perpetual  proteft.  They  are  like  the  writing 
on  the  wall  defcribed  by  the  prophet  Daniel,  though 
the  interpretation  is  not  exactly  the  fame.  They  feem  to 
fay,  “ What  fhall  it  profit,  though  a man  gain  the  whole 
world,  and  lofe  his  own  foul?’’  Such  a proteft  mud: 
have  been  needful  in  its  generation,  and  may  be  made 
ufeful  now,  though  the  man  is  dead  and  his  works 
comparatively  forgotten.  He  reminds  me  of  one  of 
thofe  rugged  crags  which  look  down  on  the  fruitful 
plains  beneath,  in  half  contempt  at  the  minute  kind  of 
life  which  is  going  on  there,  and  feem  to  fay,  “ You  are 


89 


OF  JOHN  FOSTER . 

very  bufy  and  a&ive,  but  you  cannot  fee  what  I fee ; 
you  cannot  penetrate,  as  I do,  through  the  mafs  of 
clouds  which  obfcures  my  fummit.” 

44  He  who  afcends  to  mountain  tops  fiiall  find 
The  loftieft  peaks  moft  wrapt  in  cloud  and  fnow ; 

He  who  furpafles  or  fubdues  mankind 
Muft  look  down  on  the  hate  of  thofe  below. 

Though  high  above  the  fun  of  glory  glow, 

And  far  beneath  the  earth  and  ocean  fpread, 

Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempefts  on  his  naked  head  ; 

And  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  thofe  fummits  lead.” 

There  are  fome  minds  which  feem  fo  thoroughly  to 
fit  into  this  life,  and  to  be  fo  fatisfied  with  it,  and  to 
have  fo  few  afpirations  beyond  it,  that  we  almoll 
are  tempted  to  doubt  whether  they  have  any  of  the 
elements  of  a future  exiftence  within  them.  There  are 
others  again,  though  comparatively  few  in  number,  who 
make  themfelves  fo  little  at  home  in  this  world,  that  the 
wonder  is  how  they  came  there ; they  feem  to  be  the 
natural  nurflings  of  immortality,  and  their  foul  con- 
tinually flaps  its  wings  againft  its  earthly  prifon-houfe 
like  a caged  eagle.  So  it  was  with  John  Fofter ; and 
as  in  pidluring  to  ourfelves  the  ftate  of  any  Chriftian 
when  tranfplanted  into  a higher  and  happier  life,  we 
naturally  fix  upon  fome  particular  blefling  which  he 
moft  ardently  defired,  or  was  in  an  unufual  degree 
deprived  of,  while  on  earth ; fo  in  thinking  of  him 
tranfplanted  as  he  now  is  to  a more  congenial  world, 
our  firft  involuntary  refle&ion  is  that  he  is  free,  that  his 
fpirit  has  put  off  its  burden,  and  is  efcaped  from  what 


1 90  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 

to  him  was  little  better  than  a dungeon.  You  will 
perceive  from  what  I have  faid,  that  his  charadter  was 
not  one  which  we  could  altogether  hold  up  as  a perfedl 
model;  but  what  character  can  be  thus  held  up  without 
a great  deal  of  qualification? — for  almoft  every  virtue  in 
this  world  carries  with  it  its  attendant  defedl.  Well  for 
us  if  our  defects,  as  in  the  cafe  of  Folter,  arife  not  from 
any  thing  bafe  or  depraved,  but  only  from  excefs  of 
high  and  noble  qualities.  Indeed,  molt  of  his  defi- 
ciencies may  be  rather  called  misfortunes  than  faults. 
At  all  events,  it  was  to  the  peculiar  type  of  character 
which  I have  defcribed,  with  its  beauties  and  its  draw- 
backs, that  his  Effays  owe  their  attradlive  qualities,  and 
that  peculiar  weight  which  they  muft  carry  with  every 
thoughtful  perfon  who  will  take  the  trouble  carefully 
to  read  them.  In  fa£l,  it  is  this  which  has  enabled 
them  to  triumph  over  obflacles  and  to  become  com- 
paratively popular,  in  fpite  of  certain  faults  of  flyle 
which  are  efientially  prejudicial  to  popularity.  Fofler’s 
ffcyle  wants  fimplicity,  it  wants  brevity,  and  it  wants 
perfpicuity  ; and  yet  he  rivets  our  attention,  and  excites 
our  curiofity.  But  it  is  remarkable  alfo  that  though 
prolixity  and  pompofity,  efpecially  if  accompanied,  as 
they  univerfally  are,  with  an  undue  preponderance  of 
Latin  words,  generally  impart  feeblenefs  to  the  flyle ; yet 
Fofter,  though  he  falls  into  boththefe  faults,  always  writes 
with  vigour.  Now  this  difcrepancy  I attribute  in  fome 
meafure  to  the  fa£l  that  his  faults  in  flyle  were  not  a 
part  of  himfelf,  but  were  rather  the  refults  of  accidental 
circumflances.  For  it  is  remarkable  that  mofl  learned 
writers  among  the  Diffenters  fall  into  the  fame  errors. 


OF  JOHN  FOSTER . 


191 

As  one  of  the  Edinburgh  reviewers  remarks,  they  adopt 
a ftudioufly  latinized  ftyle,  as  if  they  were  anxious  to 
fhow  that  they  can  write  as  claflical  Englifh  as  thofe 
who  wear  filk  gowns  and  have  enjoyed  the  benefit  of 
an  Univerfity  education.  Thus  the  faults  of  Fofter’s 
ftyle  are  more  or  lefs  charaderiftic  of  the  clafs  to  which 
he  belonged,  fome  of  them  arifing  from  the  above- 
mentioned  caufes,  and  fome  being  attributable  to  the 
want  of  that  regular  fyftematic  training  which  our 
Univerfities  afford ; but  his  merits  are  peculiar  to  him- 
felf.  The  earneftnefs  and  intenfity  of  his  nature  commu- 
nicates itfelf  to  his  writings,  and  gives  to  the  opinions 
which  he  expreffes  a weight  which  they  would  probably 
not  carry  with  them  if  uttered  by  another.  They  are 
the  refult  of  deep  convidions  engraven  in  the  heart  at 
the  expenfe  of  fevere  refiedion  and  painful  experience. 

And  now  I find  myfelf  approaching  the  fecond  part 
of  my  fubjed,  namely,  the  writings  of  John  Fofter.  His 
Effays  are  the  only  portion  of  thofe  writings  which  I 
mean  to  touch  on ; but  confining  myfelf,  as  I do,  to 
thefe,  I find  (as  before  remarked)  the  fubjed  rather  a 
large  one  to  handle,  efpecially  as  I do  not  devote  to  it 
the  whole  even  of  one  fingle  ledure.  But  the  way 
I propofe  to  deal  with  it  will  be  this : I fhall  pre- 
fuppofe  that  you  either  have  read,  or  mean  to  read, 
the  book  of  which  I am  fpeaking,  and  fhall  not, 
therefore,  give  you  an  analyfis  of  it,  but  fhall  fay  what 
I think  the  writer  has  omitted  to  fay,  rather  than  what 
he  has  faid,  on  the  various  topics  which  he  difcuffes. 

The  firft  Effay  is  on  “ A Man’s  writing  Memoirs  of 
himfelf;”  a title  which  I think  to  fome  minds  would 


192 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


not  convey  a very  diftindl  idea  of  the  fubjedl-matter. 
The  writer’s  great  objedt  feems  to  be  to  imprefs  upon 
men’s  minds  the  importance  of  introfpedtion  and  felf- 
examination,  with  a view  to  making  an  analyfis  of  their 
lives,  and  in  order  to  enable  them  to  fee  what  are  the 
effedts  produced  by  the  operation  of  a particular  clafs 
of  circumftances  upon  their  minds — what,  in  fhort,  are 
the  caufes,  and  what  the  influences,  which  contributed 
to  form  their  prefent  charadter.  It  feems  certainly  to 
me,  as  it  does  to  him,  moll  extraordinary  that  moll 
men  never  take  account  of  this.  As  Fofler  himfelf 
obferves,  men  realize  their  exiftence  in  the  furrounding 
objedts  that  adt  upon  them,  and  form  the  interefts  of 
felf,  rather  than  in  felf,  that  interior  being  which  is  thus 
adted  upon.  The  fadt  is  that  many  men  have  fcarcely 
fuflicient  of  the  fenfe  of  individuality  to  care  what 
eventually  becomes  of  them  ; whether,  in  fhort,  they 
are  finally  faved  or  loft.  Looking  at  everything  as  they 
do,  from  the  outftde  rather  than  from  the  infide,  the 
work  of  felf-examination  appears  quite  foreign  to  their 
nature.  Fofter  feems  clearly  to  perceive,  and  deeply  to 
deplore,  the  evils  of  fuch  a difpofttion ; but  he  feems 
to  have  failed  in  pointing  out  with  equal  clearnefs  the 
evils  which  arife  from  the  oppofite  difpofition.  The 
minds  of  men  may  be  divided  into  two  clafles,  ob- 
jective and  fubjedlive,  each  of  which  clafs  pofleftes  its 
own  peculiar  excellencies,  and  its  own  peculiar  defi- 
ciencies. The  commoneft  type  of  mind  is  the  ob- 
jective ; and  the  prefent  age  is  particularly  favourable 
to  its  development,  owing  to  the  rate  of  high  preffure 
at  which  our  life  moves,  which  leaves  us  no  time  for 


OF  JOHN  FOSTER . 


193 


refledtion,  and  for  a careful  examination  either  of  our 
own  minds  and  lives,  or  of  the  various  objedts  and 
influences  by  which  we  are  furrounded  ; and  this  is  a 
talk  to  which,  even  under  favourable  circumftances, 
moft  men  are  averfe.  Their  impreflions  come  to  them 
from  without  rather  than  from  within ; and  they  efti- 
mate  everything  by  its  outward  appearance,  and  by  the 
form  which  it  aflumes;  and  thofe  who  attempt  to 
penetrate  beneath  the  furface  of  things  into  their  fpirit 
they  would  in  many  inflances  deprecate,  as  imprac- 
ticable and  viflonary.  Spiritual  they  interpret  to 
mean  figurative ; and  what  are  tangible  and  vifible 
they  confider  to  be  the  only  realities,  whereas, 
in  point  of  fadt,  the  reverfe  is  the  cafe.  The  true 
eflence  of  a thing  is  its  fpirit ; the  natural  form  with 
which  it  is  clothed  is  only  its  type  or  fhadow.  Per- 
forms of  the  clafs  I have  been  defcribing  find  it  very 
difficult  to  underfiand  what  conftitutes  the  eflence  of 
the  Chriftian  life ; they  make  it  confift  in  a certain  fet 
of  adtions,  perhaps  accompanied  by  a certain  ftate  of 
mind,  not  perceiving  that  thefe  are  only  the  outward 
and  vifible  figns  of  an  inward  and  fpiritual  grace.  The 
Chriftian’s  life  is  hidden  with  Chrift  in  God ; and 
thofe  manifeftations  which  meet  the  eye  of  man  are 
merely  properties  which  are  attached  to  its  eflence. 
True  religion  has,  indeed,  a tendency  to  counteradl  this 
defedt  of  mind  of  which  I have  been  fpeaking,  becaufe 
the  life  of  Chrift  is  one  which  comprifes  and  reconciles 
together  all,  even  the  moft  apparently  antagonize, 
qualities  in  the  human  mind ; but  ftill  in  each  indivi- 
dual Chriftian  the  original  type  will  always  more  or 


o 


i94 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


lefs  remain,  and  perhaps  it  is  right  that  it  fhould  do  fo, 
for  all  members  have  not  the  fame  office.  The  other 
type  of  mind,  the  fubjedlive,  is  not  perhaps  fo  common 
as  the  one  we  have  firft  defcribed,  but  we  may  find 
many  experiences  of  it  in  the  world  if  we  look  about 
us.  Perfons  of  this  call  of  mind  are  indeed  well  dif- 
pofed  to  the  work  of  felf-examination,  and  will  eafily 
be  led  to  fpeculate  on  the  events  which  befall  them, 
and  the  influence  which  thofe  events  exercife  on  their 
character.  But  with  them  the  danger  to  be  guarded 
againft  is  left  their  procefs  of  analyfis  fhould  end  as  it 
began,  in  mere  fpeculation.  Being  naturally  averfe  to 
adtion,  they  fpend  their  time  in  pondering  and  muling, 
while  plain  pradtical  duties  which  ought  to  be  per- 
formed, and  the  performance  of  which  would  exercife 
a beneficial  effedl  on  their  inward  man,  prefs  around 
them ; and  thus  life,  with  all  its  golden  opportunities, 
pafles  away,  never  to  return,  leaving  them  little  to  Ihow 
at  the  great  day  of  account.  The  tendency  of  this 
difpolition  of  mind,  when  fully  carried  out  and  uncoun- 
teradled  by  higher  influences,  is  gradually  to  reduce  all 
virtuous  principles  to  mere  matters  of  theoretical  fpecula- 
tion, and  to  reduce  all  religious  truths  into  certain  mental 
impreffions.  In  the  German  nation  this  difpolition  is 
pulhed  to  the  greateft  length  ; and  many  of  their  writings 
have  infedled  our  countrymen  with  the  fame  difeafe. 
Viewing  every  principle  and  dodtrine  apart  from  the  prac- 
tical purpofes  which  it  was  intended  to  ferve,  and  re- 
garding it  only  as  an  objedt  of  admiration  or  of  a curious 
fpeculation  and  analyfis,  the  German  philofophers  have 
many  of  them  funk  by  degrees  into  the  loweft  depths  of 


OF  JOHN  FOSTER . 


1 95 


infidelity.  The  road  by  which  they  arrived  at  this 
goal  was  indeed  very  different  from  that  of  Hume, 
Bolingbroke,  and  Voltaire  : they  did  not  openly  attack 
Chriftianity,  but  they  refined  it  away  until  at  lalf  they 
reduced  it  to  a mere  myth — the  fhadow  of  a fhade. 
This  fame  difpofition  of  mind  has  led  fome  of  our 
modern  writers  to  undervalue  external  evidences,  and 
to  depend  too  much  on  what  they  call  the  verifying 
power  of  man’s  mind.  That  fuch  a power  does  exift 
there  is  no  doubt ; but  it  needs  continually  to  be  tefted 
by  a reference  to  external  truths,  which  mull  be  taken 
for  granted  becaufe  they  are  fupported  by  external 
evidence.  If  not  fubmitted  to  this  procefs,  the  veri- 
fying will  become  a fallifying  power.  Thus  you  fee 
we  live  between  Scylla  and  Charybdis. 

There  are  two  oppofite  dangers  to  be  guarded 
againft  in  dealing  with  life  ; the  danger  of  throwing 
ourfelves  fo  entirely  into  the  outer  life  as  to  forget  the 
inner ; and  the  danger  of  pafiing  our  time  in  vain  {pecu- 
lation, forgetting  the  words  of  Bacon,  that  “ in  this  world 
God  and  the  angels  fhould  be  the  only  lookers-on.” 
For  the  reft  I muft  refer  you  to  Fofter?s  own  remarks, 
for  I really  have  not  fpace  to  give  you  both  his  re- 
flections and  my  own ; and  I will  merely  add  one 
obfervation  which  bears  upon  the  fubjeCt  of  his  Eflay, 
and  which  I think  at  leaft  deferving  of  attention.  It 
was  made  by  one  who  was  hovering  between  life  and 
death,  and  who  therefore  faw,  as  perfons  in  this  con- 
dition often  do  (when  difeafe  does  not  cloud  the  mind), 
more  of  the  hidden  machinery  by  which  life  is  moved, 
than  thofe  who  are  in  the  vigour  of  health.  The 


196  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 

obfervation  is  this  : that  when  we  come  fuddenly  in 
contact  with  perfons  and  circumfiances  which  feem  to 
contradidt  the  previous  tenor  of  our  lives,  there  is  a pre- 
emption that  God  is  working  in  us  fomething  which 
bears  a fpecial  reference  to  eternity.  Thus,  in  enter- 
taining thefe  firange  vifitants,  we  may  be  often  enter- 
taining angels  unawares. 

The  fecond  Effay  is  “ On  Decifion  of  Character,”  a 
fubjedt  which  the  writer  enters  into  con  amore . He 
has  evidently  the  higheft  admiration  for  this  quality, 
and  moft  forcibly  does  he  fet  forth  its  ineftimable 
advantages,  and  the  evils  of  indecilion ; fo  much  fo 
that  any  one  who  reads  the  Effay  ought  to  read  to  the 
end,  where  the  author  fhows  that  firmnefs  if  wrongly 
diredted  is  but  weaknefs  in  the  fight  of  God.  I give  this 
caution  partly  becaufe  I know  that  there  was  in  the 
world,  even  if  there  is  not  now,  a certain  fchool  called 
the  fpafmodic  fchool,  which  differed  from  the  Byronian 
in  this  refpedt,  that  its  difciples  did  not,  like  thofe  of 
Byron,  make  heroes  of  mere  paflionate  weaklings,  but 
feledted  for  the  objedt  of  their  worfhip,  one  man  remark- 
able for  his  firength  and  determination  of  charadler,  if 
alfo  remarkable  for  his  badnefs,  fo  much  the  better, 
becaufe  it  feemed  in  their  eyes  to  bring  out  his  firength 
into  fuller  relief ; and  thus  they  would  deify  as  a 
hero,  a man  of  whom  we  fhould  be  tempted  to  fay  if 
we  met  him  in  real  life,  that  hanging  was  almoft  too 
good  for  him.  But  certainly  Fofter,  with  all  his  admi- 
ration for  decifion  of  charadter,  does  not  pander  to  this 
fpirit.  He  has,  however,  made  one  omiflion  ; he  has 
noticed  only  the  peculiar  evils  of  indecifion  of  charac- 


OF  JOHN  FOSTER . 


l97 


ter,  and  has  failed  to  point  out  an  oppofite  clafs  of  faults 
into  which  men  of  more  refolute  difpofition  are  apt  to 
fall.  Great  decifion  is  generally  accompanied  with  a 
certain  amount  of  doggednefs,  which  will  not  lifhen  to 
reafon,  which  often  brings  its  owner  into  trouble,  and 
which  prevents  him  from  learning  the  lelfons  which 
his  misfortunes  ought  to  teach  him.  The  directions 
which  Fofter  gives  to  the  undecided,  are  wife  and  good  : 
but  there  is  one  confideration  which  he  has  omitted  to 
fuggeft,  which  I think  is  a ufeful  one  for  thofe  perfons 
to  bear  in  mind,  whofe  indecifion  is  connected,  as  it 
often  is,  with  the  fear  of  man.  Probably  one-half  of 
thofe  we  meet  with  in  this  world  are  as  great  cowards 
as  ourfelves,  and  only  require  that  we  fhould  make  the 
firlt  move  (provided  we  do  fo  with  coolnefs  and  good 
temper),  in  order  to  induce  them  to  give  way.  The 
very  fame  perfons  whom  it  might  be  fafe  to  oppofe, 
are  often  dangerous  to  run  away  from.  I will  conclude 
this  part  of  the  fubjeCt  by  referring  you  to  a paffage 
which  I will  not  read,  but  which  I recommend  you  to 
read  if  you  wifti  for  a fpecimen  of  Fofter’s  molt 
eloquent  effufions.  I allude  to  his  defcription  of  the 
charaCler  of  Howard  the  philanthropift,  a man  who 
indeed  exhibited  an  inftance  of  decilion  of  charaCler 
direCled  to  the  highefl  and  nobleft  objeCls. 

Of  the  third  Effay,  “ On  the  Epithet  Romantic,”  I 
fhall  fay  but  little,  becaufe  I have  myfelf  treated  of  the 
fame  fubjed  in  a former  leClure.  He  dwells  chiefly  on 
the  evils  refulting  from  the  difpofition  to  clothe  real  life 
with  the  gay  plumage  of  romance  ; but,  as  far  as  I recoi- 
led, he  has  not  fee  forth  with  equal  clearnefs  the  faCt  that 


i9S  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 

all  thefe  exalted  conceptions  of  the  good  and  beautiful 
which,  when  applied  to  this  life,  appear  fo  ridiculoufly 
overtrained,  have  their  counterpart  and  their  true 
explanation  in  the  life  of  a higher  world,  and  are 
unconfcious  witnefles  to  its  exiftence.  But  there  is 
one  obfervation  of  his  which  I fhall  mention,  becaufe 
I failed  to  notice  it  in  my  own  lecture  when  fpeaking 
of  the  dangerous  tendency  of  thofe  novels  which  imbue 
the  youthful  mind  with  falfe  views  of  life.  There  are 
fome  novelifts  of  this  clafs,  he  remarks,  who  bring  their 
heroes  to  ultimate  fuccefs  in  the  world  by  a feries  of 
lucky  and  improbable  accidents,  independent  of  their 
own  forethought  or  exertion.  Now,  the  tendency  of 
fuch  narratives  is  tofofter  a gambling  fpirit  in  the  minds 
of  young  perfons,  to  lead  them  to  live  in  the  hope  fome 
wonderful  piece  of  good-fortune  will  turn  up  without 
any  trouble  on  their  part;  a difpofition  of  mind  which 
is  a fort  of  grofs  caricature  of  that  hopeful  faith  which, 
without  neglecting  means,  believes  that  all  things  work 
together  for  good  to  thofe  that  love  God. 

The  lafk  Eflay  is  “ On  the  Averfion  of  Men  of 
Tafte  to  Evangelical  Religion,”  and  moil  important  are 
the  confiderations  which  it  fuggefts.  It  appears  to  be 
the  production  of  a man  who  had  himfelf  fome  fympathy 
with  that  Rate  of  feeling,  the  exiftenee  of  which  in  the 
literary  world  he  deplores  and  deprecates.  Fofter  does 
not  imprefs  us  with  the  idea  of  one  whofe  mind  has 
naturally  any  predilection  for  Evangelical  truths ; he 
appears  to  have  embraced  thofe  truths  partly,  perhaps, 
owing  to  early  training,  and  partly  from  the  operations 
of  Divine  influence  on  his  heart ; but  they  do  not  feem 


OF  JOHN  FOSTER. 


1 99 


to  be  naturally  congenial  to  his  mind.  He  is  himfelf 
more  or  lefs  a fpecimen  of  the  clafs  of  which  he  is 
fpeaking,  and  is  therefore  the  more  capable  of  entering 
into  their  difficulties,  and  perceiving  the  ftumbling- 
blocks  which  ftand  in  the  way  of  their  reception  of 
plain  Gofpel  truths.  Some  of  thefe  llumbling-blocks 
he  fuppofes  (and  rightly  fo)  to  arife  from  the  manner  in 
which  thofe  truths  are- often  hated,  and  the  weakneffes 
and  follies  of  many  who  profefs  them ; and  folly,  he 
thinks,  is  in  moll  men’s  minds  lefs  eafily  feparable  from 
the  effence  of  religion  than  fin.  This  lafl:  propofition, 
however,  I fhould  not  be  inclined  to  afient  to  as  fully 
as  he  does.  I think  that  the  inconfiftency  of  condud 
which  often  accompanies  not  merely  the  weaknefs  but 
a high  Evangelical  profeffion  is  fure  to  be  laid  to  the 
door  of  Evangelical  religion  by  thofe  who,  not  having 
entered  in  at  that  door,  look  at  the  fubjed  from  the 
outfide  inftead  of  from  the  infide  ; fuch  perfons  are  only 
too  glad  of  a pretext  for  attributing  an  Antinomian 
tendency  to  that  religion  which  refts  everything  on  the 
vicarious  work  of  Chrift.  But  neverthelefs  I agree  with 
Fofter,  that  we  can  hardly  under-eitimate  the  evil  which 
the  follies  and  want  of  tafte  which  often  accompany  the 
condud  and  writings  of  fincere  Chriftians  produce  upon 
a certain  clafs  of  minds ; the  more  fo  becaufe  thefe  faults 
feem  to  be  bound  up  and  infeparably  conneded  with 
their  religion ; and  I verily  believe  that  not  all  the 
works  of  Hume  and  Voltaire  could  produce  fuch  an 
injurious  effed  on  fome  perfons  as  the  perufal  of  one 
weak  and  vulgar  trad,  written  by  a pious  but  foolifh 
Chriftian.  Truly  we  need  to  remember  our  Lord’s 


200 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


injun&ion  to  be  not  only  harmlefs  as  doves,  but  alfo 
wile  as  ferpents.  It  is  frequently  from  the  negleft  of 
this  injunction  on  the  part  of  the  Chriftian,  that  Satan 
fucceeds  in  feducing  into  folly  many  whom  he  cannot 
feduce  into  flagrant  fin ; and  his  talk  is  eafier,  becaufe 
God,  for  His  own  wife  reafons,  has  chofen  the  weak 
things  of  the  world  in  preference  to  the  wife.  For 
though  there  are  many  exceptions  to  this  rule,  yet  on 
the  whole  we  fhould  fay  that  the  great  mafs  of  learning 
and  talent,  and  of  thofe  diflinCfions,  either  real  or  ad- 
ventitious, which  make  the  greateft  fhow~  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world,  are  not  enlilted  on  the  fide  of  true  fpiritual 
religion ; and  the  treafure  which  we  have,  being  in 
earthen  veffels,  will  fometimes  tafte  of  thofe  veffels. 

But  it  is  a queftion  worth  enquiring  into,  why  Evan- 
gelical religion  is  eafily  liable  to  be  vulganfed  ? There 
are  many  reafons  for  this ; one  is  that  Evangelical  reli- 
gion is  of  all  fyftems  the  moll  humbling  and  levelling. 
It  gives  no  advantage  to  natural  acquirements,  talents, 
or  a fine  conftitution  of  mind  ; but  declares  that  all 
men  mull  become  as  little  children,  mult  be  born  again, 
before  they  can  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  God.  Again, 
its  tendency  is  to  bring  us  into  familiar  communion 
with  God,  to  call  out  fear  of  Him  ; and  in  our  corrupt 
nature,  familiarity  and  the  abfence  of  fear  are  apt  (un- 
lefs  we  carefully  watch  again#  this  danger)  to  produce 
if  not  contempt,  at  leaft  want  of  reverence.  You  re- 
member the  fable  of  the  fox  who  at  fir#  dared  not 
approach  the  lion,  but  who  at  laft  when  he  found  he 
had  nothing  to  dread  from  him  treated  him  with  infolent 
familiarity.  This  is  the  way  in  which  fome  perlons 


201 


OF  JOHN  FOSTER . 

deal  with  the  Almighty,  after  being  at  length  convinced 
that  their  imperfedlnefs  is  no  barrier  between  them  and 
their  Maker  if  they  come  to  Him  by  the  merits  of  the 
Guiltlefs,  they  fometimes  with  their  fear  lay  adde  alfo 
their  reverence,  a mod  ungrateful  return  to  Him  who 
has  freed  them  from  bondage.  Then  again  it  is  alfo  to 
be  obferved  that  as  there  is  but  one  dep  between  the 
iublime  and  the  ridiculous,  fo  the  higher  and  nobler 
any  fubjedt  is,  the  more  eafily  it  may  be  caricatured, 
and  the  more  revolting  is  the  fhape  which  the  caricature 
aflumes.  Thus  the  caricature  of  fpiritual  religion  is 
the  mod  eadly  produced  of  any,  and  difguds  us  the 
mod  when  it  is  produced,  jud  as  a monkey  difguds  us 
more  than  any  other  animal,  from  its  refemblance  to 
God’s  nobled  earthly  work.  Beddes  which  the  mere 
ufe  of  conventional  phrafes,  unlefs  guided  by  caution, 
and  good  tade,  and  good  feeling,  is  apt  to  degenerate 
into  a fort  of  flang. 

But  though  admitting  this,  I would  not  go  as  far  as 
Foder  does,  when  he  aflerts  that  another  kind  of  phra- 
feology  might  jud  as  well  be  fubdituted.  For  it  is  a 
remarkable  fa6t,  and  in  fome  meafure  contradi&s  this 
adertion,  that  many  who  have  at  one  time  of  their  life 
fhrunkfrom  the  ufe  of  Scriptural  terms,  have  afterwards 
felt  themfelves  obliged  to  refort  to  thofe  terms  as  being 
the  bed  adapted  to  exprels  their  meaning.  At  the  fame 
time  I think  we  fhould  be  careful  to  avoid  thofe  terms 
(even  at  the  rifk  of  a circumlocution)  when  we  are 
fpeaking  to  or  writing  for  the  benefit  of  thofe  in  whofe 
minds  they  would  excite  a prejudice  againd  the  truths 
we  are  inculcating.  There  are  many  perfons  who  re- 


202 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


quire  to  be  caught  by  guile ; they  are  like  timid  birds 
who  are  liable  to  be  frightened  away  by  the  flighted: 
noife.  And  it  is  important  that  we  fhould  remove 
every  caufe  of  offence  (however  unreafonable)  except 
the  offence  of  the  Crofs,  that  we  mufl  never  remove. 
And  we  fhall  find  that  this  offence  will  remain  even  in 
the  abfence  of  all  others.  But  does  that  offence  exift 
only  in  refined  and  cultivated  minds  ? No  ; but  with 
perfons  of  this  defcription  the  offence  takes  a different 
form  from  what  it  does  with  others.  They  diflike  the 
humbling,  levelling  nature  of  the  do&rines  of  the  Crofs ; 
they  do  not  like  to  wafh  in  the  fame  pool  with  the 
maimed.  See.,  with  men  of  lower  habits  and  groffer 
minds ; the  diflike  is  lefs  againfl  the  do&rines  of  the 
Crofs  than  againfl  the  practice  which  it  involves. 
There  are  diverfities  of  operation  but  the  fame  fpirit. 
In  all  cafes  the  flumblingblock  lies  in  the  principle  of  felf, 
which  is  differently  reprefented  in  different  characters, 
but  which  all  alike  are  by  nature  unwilling  to  crucify. 

But  without  attempting  to  remove  by  our  own  effort 
an  offence  which  can  only  be  removed  by  the  Spirit  of 
God,  I would  fay  this,  that  we  require  a larger-minded 
and  more  cultivated  fet  of  Chriflians  than  we  have 
formerly  poffeffed,  in  order  to  meet  the  wants  of  the 
age  and  to  combat  its  infidelity;  we  want  Chriflians, 
not  to  be,  as  they  too  often  are,  merely  men  of  one 
idea  ; they  fhould  be  able  to  prefs  every  truth  into  the 
fervice  of  religion  ; for  after  all,  every  truth  is  only 
an  emanation  from  Him  who  is  the  one  great  Truth; 
and  truth  if  feparated  from  Him  lofes  its  real  life.  And 
we  fhall  fee  in  proportion  as  we  refer  everything  to 


OF  JOHN  FOSTER. 


203 


Him,  that  all  thofe  fads  which  we  formerly  thought 
had  no  connexion  with  Him  will  gradually  tend  in 
the  fame  direction  by  a common  attraction,  and  will 
aftemble  round  Him  who  is  their  true  centre.  Chrif- 
tianity  is  a wide  as  well  as  a deep  ftream,  and  it  is  the 
non-recognition  of  this  fad  which  among  the  orthodox 
has  caufed  an  undue  power  to  fall  into  the  hands  of 
thofe  who  are  wrong  in  eflentials  but  who  recognize 
certain  truths  which  were  overlooked  by  many  who 
ought  to  be  the  fait  of  the  fait  of  the  earth.  And  with 
this  oblervation  I will  conclude,  though  I am  aware 
that  I have  not  faid  half  that  could  have  been  faid  on 
the  various  fubjeds  which  I have  touched  on.  I truft, 
however,  that  I have  faid  enough  to  induce  you  to  read 
the  writings  of  John  Fofter,  and  alfo  enough  to  fuggeft 
to  you  topics  for  refledion  which  may  laft  you  for  fome 
time  to  come. 

NOTE. 

Since  delivering  this  Ledure  I have  been  requefted  to 
append  to  it  a ihort  Iketch  of  the  life  of  John  Fofter. 
He  was  born  Sept.  17,  1770,  in  the  parifh  of  Halifax, 
of  humble  but  refpedable  parents.  After  the  comple- 
tion of  his  feventeenth  year  he  became  a member  of  the 
Baptift  congregation  at  Hebden-bridge,  and  fhortly  after 
entered  on  a courfe  of  claftical  and  general  inftrudion. 
After  fpending  three  years  in  this  way  application  was 
made  for  his  admiftion  into  the  Baptift  College,  Briftol. 
After  leaving  Briftol  the  firft  place  where  he  was  re- 
gularly engaged  as  a preacher  was  Newcaftle-upon- 


204  LIFE  OF  JOHN  FOSTER. 


Tyne ; here  he  remained  little  more  than  three  months, 
and  ftiortly  afterwards  removed  to  Ireland,  where  he 
was  invited  to  preach  to  a Baptift  fociety  meeting  in 
Swift’s  Alley,  Dublin  ; he  remained  in  Ireland  for 
about  a year  or  two.  In  1797  he  was  invited  to  be- 
come the  minifter  of  a General  Baptift  Church  at 
Chichefter,  here  he  remained  two  years  and  a half, 
after  which  time  he  removed  to  Batterfea,  near  Briftol, 
where  he  firft  met  with  the  lady  whom  he  afterwards 
married.  His  marriage  was  celebrated  in  May,  1808. 
He  feems  to  have  lived  long  and  happily  with  his  wife. 
He  did  not  furvive  her  many  years.  His  death  took 
place  fomewhere  about  1843,  and  he  was  interred  in 
the  burial-ground  belonging  to  the  chapel  at  Downe, 
where  he  formerly  preached.  His  chief  works  (be- 
lides  the  volume  of  Effays  which  form  the  fubjedt  of  this 
Ledture)  are  an  Elfay  on  Popular  Ignorance,  an  Eftay 
on  the  Preaching  of  Robert  Hall,  and  feveral  articles 
in  the  Eclectic  Review .*  Thefe  works  are  but  little 
known  ; and  perhaps,  conftdering  the  peculiar  faults  of 
ftyle  which  charadterize  his  writings,  and  which  I have 
already  noticed,  we  cannot  wonder  at  this.  I think, 
however,  that  they  will  fully  repay  any  one  who  is 
willing  to  take  the  trouble  of  giving  them  a careful 
perufal. 

* The  contributions  to  the  Ecle&ic , fixty  in  number,  have  been 
republifhed  in  two  volumes,  under  the  title  of  <c  Fofter’s  Critical 
Effays,”  in  Bohn’s  Standard  Library. 


THE  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

BY  RANDAL  W.  MAC  DONNELL,  ESO. 

EX-SCHOLAR,  TRINITY  COLLEGE,  DUBLIN. 

9 


THE  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL  POETRY 
OF  IRELAND. 

HE  fubjedt  which  I have  chofen  is  one 
which,  I think,  demands  no  introdudlion, 
(to  an  Irifh  audience  at  leaf!,)  and  cer- 
tainly no  apology.  In  the  firft  place, 
whatever  may  be  its  aftual  value,  it  has  been  drawn 
from  that  mighty  treafure  of  moral  truth  which  lies 
depofited  in  poetry  and  fi6lion.  It  belongs,  too,  to 
that  part  of  poefy  which  flows  frefheft  and  pureft  from 
the  very  heart  of  man.  But  in  Ireland  it  fliould  poflefs 
a tenfold  intereft  : for  all  at  leaft  who  care  to  look  deep 
into  the  curious  genius  of  our  people ; becaufe  in  the 
Celtic  intellect  generally,  and  in  the  Irifh  intellect  mofl 
particularly,  the  lyrical  element  poflefles  a peculiar  pre- 
dominance. So  great  indeed  is  that  predominance  that 
the  very  eflential  fpirit  of  the  ballad  and  the  lyric  does 
not  pervade  the  imagination  only,  but  extending  its 
fubtle  influence  beyond  the  domain  of  fancy  tindlures 
the  reafon  and  impregnates  the  charadler  of  the  nation. 
Thus  while  this  order  of  poetry  poflefles  many  charms 
for  all,  it  is  fraught  with  deep  fignificance  and  intereft 


208 


BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


for  fuch  as  are  concerned  in  afcertaining  the  true  bent 
of  the  national  character  and  the  true  capacity  of  the 
national  underftanding. 

Whether  the  lingular  development  of  this  lyrical 
power  is  caufe  or  effedt — whether  it  is  due  to  the  con- 
fpiring  tendency  of  all  the  faculties  as  they  are  con- 
flicted in  the  Celtic  mind,  or  on  the  contrary  thofe 
faculties  have  all  been  enflaved  by  the  fancy,  is  a meta- 
phyflcal  queftion  which  hardly  admits  of  any  certain 
folution.  But  this  much  is  fure,  that  the  quality  of  the 
imagination  is  difcernible  in  every  other  region  of  the 
Celtic  brain — “ fubtle,  rapid,  verfatile,  graceful,”  are 
words  as  exadtly  applicable  to  the  reafon  as  they  are  to 
the  fancy  of  the  Irifh  people;  while  in  both  there  is 
frequently  a want  of  ftrength,  boldnefs,  and  compre- 
henflon.  A tendency  precifely  analagous  may  be  ob- 
ferved  in  the  habits  of  the  memory,  which,  while  it 
Ihrinks  from  the  irkfome  talk  of  yielding  to  the  mind  in 
flow  fucceflion  the  materials  for  abftradtion,  or  for  that 
laborious  difcernment  of  differences  which  is  the  pro- 
vince of  the  judgment,  delights  in  fupplying  with  in- 
credible quicknefs  images  linked  by  fome  refemblance 
of  almoft  impalpable  fubtlety.  The  moral  charadler 
alfo  of  the  Celtic  races  is  highly  favourable  to  the  de- 
velopment of  the  faculty  which  we  are  conlidering. 
Penlive,  and  yet  fenfuous — joyous  and  paflionate — they 
And  in  their  moments  of  meditation  a hoard  of  vivid 
images  gathered  in  their  gayer  hours  but  deftined  to 
ferve  as  the  material  for  flrains  of  gloom  and  paflion. 
Habitual  impatience,  fometimes  violating  the  laws  of 
perfedt  tafte,  but  always  enfuring  a Ample  and  natural 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND . 


209 


utterance  of  the  moft  genuine  feeling,  increafes  ftill  fur- 
ther the  marvellous  rapidity  of  the  mind  itfelf,  and  com- 
pletes a condition  the  moft  favourable  that  can  be 
imagined  to  the  production  of  ballad  and  lyrical  poetry. 

It  follows,  as  an  almoft  neceflary  refult  from  the 
pofleflion  of  a mental  conftitution  fo  propitious  to  the 
conception  of  this  kind  of  poetry,  that  the  language  of  a 
people  fo  endowed  fhould  be  equally  favourable  to  its 
exprejjion . Such  is  accordingly  the  cafe.  The  Irifh 
tongue,  fcorned  now  that  its  glory  has  departed,  was 
once,  it  mull  not  be  forgotten,  the  language  of  the  moft 
cultivated  of  European  peoples.  Its  growth,  too,  was 
at  a time  when  all  knowledge  was  imparted  in  verfe. 
It  is,  moreover,  fingularly  mufical.  One  of  its  moft 
marked  chara&eriftics  is  a great  predominance  of  vowel 
founds  over  the  lefs  fluent  confonant.  So  great  was 
the  number  of  its  fynonyms  that  they  would  have  been 
ufelefs  in  the  hands  of  a people  lefs  gifted  with  the 
fineft  powers  of  aifcrimination.  It  is  faid  that  for  the 
word  “ fhip 99  there  were  in  the  Irifh  no  lefs  than  fifty 
equivalents.  In  a word,  the  language  ufed  by  the  an- 
cient Irifh  was  one  fingularly  adapted  to  the  require- 
ments of  poetry — redundant  in  its  modes  of  expreflion, 
fubtle  in  its  fhades  of  meaning — liquid,  various,  flexible, 
harmonious. 

With  thefe  qualifications,  as  well  of  language  as  of 
mind,  it  would  have  been  ftrange  if  the  ballad  and 
lyrical  poetry  of  Ireland  had  not  attained  to  very  great 
excellence.  I propofe,  in  the  following  Ledture,  to 
touch  very  briefly  (for  the  purpofe  of  comparifon)  on 
the  rife  and  eventual  fate  of  this  delightful  and  ftirring 


p 


2io  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


kind  of  verfe  in  fome  of  the  other  countries  of  Europe, 
to  fketch  its  hiflory  in  our  own,  and  to  call  your  atten- 
tion to  a few  examples  which  (however  inadequately) 
may  illuftrate  the  various  periods  to  which  I fhall 
refer.  While  doing  fo  I hope  to  point  out  the  lingular 
tenacity  with  which  this  kind  of  compofition  has 
retained  its  hold  upon  the  Irilh  mind,  while  in  other 
countries  it  has  always  pafled,  with  the  progrefs  of 
the  people,  into  fome  higher  form  of  poetry ; to  fhow 
that  the  fpirit  which  gave  it  birth  is  not  confined  to 
poetry,  but  is  of  the  very  effence  of  the  Irilh  mind  ; and 
to  fuggeft  what  appears  to  me  to  be  a fpeculation  of  the 
highelt  importance  touching  the  probable  future  of  a 
national  genius  which  has  fo  long  contented  itfelf  with 
efforts  merely  momentary.  I fhall  be  glad  if,  in  doing 
this,  I can  befides  awaken,  in  fuch  a circle  as  I have 
the  honour  to  addrefs,  a livelier  intereft  in  poets  of  whom 
fome  have  been  drawn  into  obfcurity  with  the  decline 
of  an  unfafhionable  tongue,  and  of  whom  moll  of  the 
others  have  been  eclipfed  in  the  gloom  of  an  unfuc- 
cefsful  political  llruggle. 

While  written  records  are  Hill  unufed  or  rare  among 
a people,  memorable  events  (chiefly  owing  to  the  aid 
which  memory  receives  from  rhyme)  are  fixed  in  verfe, 
anu  in  that  form  handed  from  one  generation  to 
another.  The  poems  in  which  the  early  hiflory  of 
nations  is  thus  prelerved  (the  rudeft  form  of  ballad 
poetry)  are  found,  as  might  be  anticipated,  among  all 
peoples  in  their  infant  flate,  and  furnilh  the  moll  cer- 
tain indications  of  their  intellectual  vigour.  The  bal- 
lads which  are  now  generally  fuppofed  to  have  been 
collected,  after  long  prefervation  by  oral  tradition,  into 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND . 


21  I 


the  poem  called  Homer,  were  the  firft  fhort  flights  of 
the  tranfcendent  genius  of  Greece.  That  Rome  had 
a literature  in  which  her  early  greatnefs  was  recorded  is 
abundantly  proved,  though  the  poems  themfelves  are 
loft.  The  conception  of  what  they  might  have  been  is 
that  which  has  found  fo  brilliant  a realization  in  Lord 
Macaulay’s  “ Lays  of  Ancient  Rome.”  In  the  north 
and  weft  of  Europe  the  gloomy  imagination  of  the 
bards  found  vent  in  the  “ Sagas  ” in  which  they 
fung  the  praifes  of  their  heroes,  and  recorded  the 
terrible  fuperftition  of  which  Tor  and  Wodin  were 
the  deities ; while  Spain  employed  all  the  powers  of 
her  fweet  fonorous  diale&s  in  telling  the  glories  of 
her  ftruggle  with  the  Saracen  and  the  Goth.  The 
lay  of  the  Nibelungs  bears  teftimony  to  the  exift- 
ence  in  Germany,  ages  fince,  of  thofe  poetic  powers 
which  have  of  recent  years  filled  the  ear  of  Europe. 
France  had  her  troubadours.  In  Scotland  the  ballad 
flouriftied  with  great  luxuriance.  In  Wales  and  Eng- 
land the  earlieft  materials  were  fupplied  by  the  legends 
of  King  Arthur  and  his  knights.  Subfequently  the  gay 
outlaws  of  Sherwood  and  the  endlefs  feuds  of  the 
Border  became  the  theme ; and  the  fuccefs  of  thefe 
firft  efforts  is  attefted  in  the  fylvan  frefhnefs  of  “ Robin 
Hood  ” and  the  nervous  fimplicity  of  “ Chevy  Chafe.” 
In  all  thefe  countries  their  ballad  literature  gave  great 
poetic  promife,  and  in  nearly  all  that  promife  has  been 
richly  realifed.  Nor  has  the  ballad  been  merely  the 
forerunner  of  thofe  mighty  poems  which  each  has  pro- 
duced, but  its  flavour  is  eafily  and  fenfibly  difcernible  in 
each.  In  Spain  the  “Cid”  is  but  a lay  expanded  to  the 
proportions  of  an  epic.  The  fublime  feverity  of  the 


2i 2 BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


great  Englifh  epic  recalls  the  vigorous  unembellifhed 
purity  of  the  minftrelfy  of  the  Border ; and  the  ruftic 
tranquillity  of  the  more  peaceful  ballads  feems  like  a 
foretafte  of  fuch  fylvan  fcenes  as  the  foreft  of  Ardennes 
or  the  fhades  that  envelope  the  orgies  of  “Comus.”  A 
Hill  clofer  connexion  may  be  obferved  between  the  old 
poetry  and  the  “ Fairy  Queen, ’’in  point  of  fubjeft  at  leaft. 
Deeply  as  the  “Eneid”  is  indebted  to  Grecian  fources, 
it  can  hardly  be  doubted  that  in  it  are  preferved,  to  fome 
extent,  the  rude  traditions  of  the  early  Latin  fongs. 
Homer  is,  as  I have  faid,  fuppofed  to  be  but  a lay,  or  a 
feries  of  lays,  of  unparalleled  beauty  and  grandeur,  and 
even  the  dramas  of  Greece  were  fpoken  of  by  her  fub- 
limeft  dramatift  as  “ morfels  from  the  Homeric  ban- 
quet.” 

Thefe  inftances,  however  fcanty,  will  fuffice  to  fhow 
that  there  is  a very  perceptible  relation  between  the 
early  lays  of  peoples  and  their  loftier  and  more  fuftained 
efforts — that  as  a general  rule  there  is  realifed  in  the 
maturity  of  a people’s  fancy  the  promife  implied  in  the 
fweet  and  genuine  utterances  of  its  childhood.  Bearing 
in  view  this  connexion  as  it  appears  in  other  countries, 
let  me  now  afk  your  attention  to  the  earlier  hiftory  of 
this  fpecies  of  compofition  in  our  own. 

It  is  well  known  that  in  thofe  dark  ages  which  fol- 
lowed the  overthrow  of  the  Roman  Empire  the  light 
of  learning,  darkened  or  extinguifhed  in  the  other 
countries  of  Europe,  was  in  Ireland  kept  alive,  and  fed 
and  tended  here  with  pious  care.  In  order  the  better 
to  preferve  her  knowledge  the  Irifh  people  and  princes 
eftablifhed  numbers  of  colleges  throughout  the  ifland. 


POETRT  OF  IRELAND . 


213 


and  in  them  every  branch  of  learning — law  and  reli- 
gion, fcience  and  literature — was  imparted  through 
the  agreeable  medium  of  verfe.  Of  thofe  educated  in 
thefe  feats  of  learning,  by  far  the  molt  important  por- 
tion were  “ the  Bards/’ 

This  facred  office — for  fuch  it  was  in  times  too  fimple 
or  too  wife  to  ignore  the  tie  that  links  poetry  to  religion 
— was  confined  to  a few  of  the  moll  illuftrious  families, 
and  from  thefe  were  chofen  the  children  of  the  moft 
promifing  genius.  In  cloifters  hidden  deep  in  old  oak 
forefts,  and  never  penetrated  by  the  beams  of  the  fun, 
they  are  faid  to  have  purfued  their  ftudies  by  the  light 
of  lamps  and  tapers,  and  for  twelve  long  years  to  have 
been  taught  to  “ fpurn  delights  and  live  laborious  days.” 
This  ordeal  having  been  paffed,  a very  different  life 
awaited  them.  Going  forth  into  the  world  they 
became  perfonages  of  the  highelt  importance  in  the 
families  of  the  chieftains.  Lands  were  allotted  to 
them.  Their  perfons  were  facred.  They  were  the 
conftant  companions  of  their  chief.  Their  focial  pofi- 
tion  was  fo  high  that  an  ancient  fumptuary  law,  which 
regulated  the  number  of  colours  in  which  the  various 
grades  of  the  people  might  array  themfelves,  allowed  two 
to  an  ordinary  gentleman  ; five  to  a nobleman  ; fix  to  a 
bard  ; while  the  royal  family  itfelf  was  limited  to  feven. 

The  account  given  of  the  duties  of  thefe  Irifh  bards 
immediately  difclofes  their  refemblance  to  thofe  whom 
I have  already  mentioned  as  having  exifted  elefewhere. 
They  were  expected  to  perpetuate  in  verfe  the  memo- 
rable incidents  of  their  own  time,  and  to  keep  alive  the 
tales  already  current  of  the  mighty  deeds  of  former 


2I4  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


heroes.  In  this  we  recognife  the  ballad  poem.  Odes 
on  joyful  occurrences  and  dirges  over  the  fallen  alfo 
conftituted  a portion  of  their  fervice,  and  here  they  ap- 
proached moft  nearly  the  lyric  form.  Their  principal 
office,  however,  was  the  former,  and  in  its  performance 
they  were  required  even  to  attend  their  chieftain  to 
the  field,  and  Tyrtaeus-like  to  animate  his  courage  and 
that  of  his  followers  with  fuch  {trains  “ as  raifed  to 
height  of  nobleft  temper  heroes  old  arming  for  battle.” 

The  mode  in  which  they  were  fuffered  to  accomplifh 
this  prefents  a ftrange  contrail:  to  modern  warfare.  The 
bard,  arrayed  in  a flowing  robe  of  white,  and  carrying 
his  harp  (of  which  each  of  them  was  a perfeCt  matter) 
advanced  into  the  very  thickeft  of  the  fray,  and  fang 
and  played  unharmed  among  the  contending  warriors. 

One  inftance  only  is  handed  down  of  an  injury  in- 
flicted on  one  of  thefe  facred  perfonages.  The  anec- 
dote deferves  to  be  recorded  as  illuftrating  very  ftrongly 
the  fanCtity  attributed  to  the  bards  by  the  Irifh  of  that 
era. 

A war  was  raging  between  the  monarch  of  Ireland 
and  the  king  of  Leinfter,  and  they  met  in  battle  at 
Cruachan.  In  the  courfe  of  the  engagement  the  king 
of  Leinfter,  ftung  by  the  farcafms  of  his  adverfary’s 
bard,  aflailed  him.  The  poet  fled  for  protection  to  the 
ranks  of  the  king’s  own  foldiers,  but  was  purfued  and 
{lain  by  the  infuriated  warrior.  The  people  in  their 
abhorrence  of  his  guilt  gave  him  the  name  of  Kinfala  or 
“ foul  head,”  and  this  term  of  loathing  was  perpetuated 
to  his  pofterity. 

Very  few  fragments  of  the  lays  of  the  bards,  produced 


POETRT  OF  IRELAND . 


215 


before  the  time  of  Oflian,  are  now  in  exiftence.  Many 
Ofiianic  or  rather  poil-OUianic  pieces,  however,  Hill 
furvive.  This  great  Irifh  poet  fo  far  outfhone  his  fellow- 
minftrels  that  almolt  all  the  remains  of  Gaelic  poetry, 
produced  during  fome  centuries  after  his  time,  are  attri- 
buted  to  him.  What  is  now  fpoken  of  as  Offian’s  may 
be  taken  therefore  as  embodying  the  chief  charadteriftics 
of  the  bardic  poetry  of  his  own  and  feveral  fucceflive 
ages.  Of  thofe  charadteriftics  the  molt  remarkable  is  a 
grandeur  of  imagery  at  times  amounting  to  fublimity* 
great  graphic  power,  the  art  of  railing  an  entire  pidlure 
by  one  well-chofen  word,  conliderable  originality,  and 
I believe  great  harmony.  To  illullrate  thefe  qualities 
as  they  deferve  would  not  be  polfible  within  mode- 
rate limits,  but  the  following  palfages  will  ferve  to  give 
fome  idea  of  the  manner  of  thefe  poets,  the  vividnefs  of 
their  pictures,  and  the  limplicity  of  their  language 

“ Early  one  foggy  morning  I and  Fionn,  Feargus,  Faolan,  Ofgur 
of  dire  deeds,  Diarmuid  Donn,  and  Conan  Maol,  went  to  chafe  the 
deer  in  the  Vale  of  Thrufhes  5 we  were  delighted  at  feeing  the 
fwiftnefs  of  the  hounds  in  the  glen.  Fionn  had  Sgeolan  and  Bran  ; 
each  two  men  of  the  Fenii  had  a hound  between  them.  We  came 
to  a glen  of  beautiful  trees ; the  birds  in  flocks  fang  melodioufly. 
We  fet  free  our  hounds  5 the  found  of  our  dogs  in  the  cliffs  was 
more  delightful  to  us  than  the  fong  of  harps. 

6e  A doe  was  ftarted  in  the  wood  j one  of  her  fides  was  white  as 
a fwan  upon  the  water  $ the  other  was  dark  as  a floe.  Through 
the  brake  fhe  ran  fwifter  than  the  flight  of  a hawk.  We  wondered 
greatly  to  fee  the  fpeed  of  the  doe.  She  outftripped  the  beft  hound 
of  the  children  of  Baoifgne,  even  Bran  who  never  miffed  her  prey. 
Though  the  chafe  began  in  the  dufky  hour  of  morning,  not  a 
hound  had  returned  at  the  hour  of  reft.  We  mourned  over  our 
loft  hounds.  Deardagh  faid  : ‘ The  chafe  which  we  began  early  in 
the  morning  was  not  a natural  one.’ 


2 1 6 BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


u Soon  after  Bran  came  back,  tired  and  wet.  She  lay  down 
before  Fionn,  panting;  her  cry  was  fhrill  and  loud.  The  fon  of 
Cumhal  faid,  * I know  by  your  cry  that  our  heads  are  in  great 
danger.’ 

u When  he  had  faid  this  there  came  to  us  a lovely  woman  of 
fair  Ikin  ; her  golden  hair  in  heavy  folds  fell  down  to  her  feet ; it 
fwept  the  dew  from  the  grafs.  A crown  of  gold  encircled  the  head 
of  this  lovely  maid  of  modeft  countenance.  She  Ihed  bright  light 
over  all  the  Fenii  from  a golden  ftar  which  hung  from  her  fide  ; 
her  cheeks  were  like  wild  rofes ; her  bofom  was  whiter  than  fnow ; 
on  her  brow  was  no  frown  ; her  eyes  were  clear,  without  mift;  low 
and  fweet  were  the  tones  of  her  voice.” 

This  animated  woodland  fcene  is  not,  however,  more 
real  than  the  following  Iketch  : — 

“ Fionn  heard  the  weeping  of  a woman ; Ihe  fat  on  the  banks 
of  a lake  ; there  the  young  damfel  wept ; her  face  and  her  figure 
were  lovely. 

“ Her  cheeks  were  redder  than  the  rofe  ; her  mouth  was  like 
two  berries  ; as  the  blofifom  was  her  chalky  neck ; her  bofom  was 
as  fair  as  the  lime. 

<e  The  colour  of  gold  was  on  her  hair;  her  eyes  were  like 
frofty  ftars  ; hadft  thou  beheld  her  form,  thy  affedtion  thou  wouldft 
have  given  to  the  woman.” 

The  fongs  of  enchantment,  as  they  are  called,  alfo 
prefent  fome  pictures  of  great  clearnefs  and  beauty. 
We  are  hardly  tranfported  more  completely  into  the 
region  of  fairy-land  by  the  “ Tempeft”  itfelf  than  by 
the  myfterious  Humber  and  aerial  mufic  of  fuch  a fcene 
as  this : — 

(e  Not  long  after  thefe  gentle  fayings  of  the  two,  they  heard 
fpiritual  mufic  which  caufed  them  to  feel  fieepy  ; fweetly  it 
founded  at  their  fides,  and  after  it  there  went  forth  a great  noife 
and  found, 

“ f Oh  gentle  queen,  is  this  mufic  thine?  Are  the  muficians 


POETRT  OF  IRELAND. 


ziy 


belonging  to  thee  who  play  fweet  founds  by  my  fide  ? I fhould 
never  think  thy  company  tedious  j do  not  wrong  me  by  thinking 
fo.’ 

iC  c There  are  no  players  of  mufic  with  me  but  thou  and  Daire, 
truly ; nor  is  there  any  one  elfe  with  me  : I promife  thee  it  is 
true.’ 

<e  The  mufic  and  the  noify  clangour  grew  louder  in  the  holes 
of  the  ears  of  the  three  : they  were  finking  into  heavy  trances : 
they  had  not  ftrength  to  Hand. 

“ It  was  not  long  ere  they  all  fell  proftrate  : the  three  fo  kind 
went  into  heavy  trances  like  thofe  of  death. 

“ When  they  came  out  of  their  fwoon,  and  recovered  their 
fhapeSj  with  colour,  form,  and  appearance,  they  faw  near  them 
a beautiful  golden  manfion  of  power  and  mattery. 

e(  They  alfo  faw  encircling  them  a vatt,  blue-waved,  powerful 
fea  5 fwimming  over  it  there  came  a bulky  hero  and  an  amiable 
woman. 

“ Daire  faid,  ‘I  am  afraid,  O Fionn,  and  thou,  flower  without 
gloom,  that  the  two  who  approach  us  by  fwimming  will  be  the 
caufe  of  melancholy  to  us.’ 

((  That  hero  and  the  woman  feized  upon  the  three  and  held 
them  clofely : they  took  them  to  the  golden  manfion  : direful  to 
the  three  was  that  fwimming.” 

A very  fair  fample  of  the  poems  of  this  period  may 
be  found  in  “ Manos  the  Great/’  It  confifts  of  a 
converfation  between  OiTian  and  St.  Patrick,  which,  if 
it  does  not  prove  the  faint  to  have  been  either  Catholic 
or  Proteftant,  or,  as  Mr.  Whitefide  fays,  a member  of 
the  Church  of  England,  at  leaft  fhows  him  to  have 
been  a perfedt  gentleman  and  a very  long-fufFering 
Chriftian.  The  poet  begins  by  telling  the  faint  that 
he  hates  his  pfalm-fmging.  St.  Patrick  replies  that 
lays  of  heroes  are  good,  but  that  pfalms,  which  are  the 
praifes  of  God,  are  better ; a proportion  which  excites 
the  ire  of  Oihan  to  the  utmoft. 


2l8 


BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


cc  I have  heard,”  he  fays,  66  mufic  more  melodious  than  your 
mufic, 

Though  greatly  thou  praifeft  the  clerics : 

The  fong  of  the  blackbird  of  Letter  Lee 
And  the  melody  which  the  Lord  Fionn  made  : 

“ The  very  fweet  thrufh  of  Gleann  a Sgail, 

Or  the  dafhing  of  the  barks  touching  the  ftrand, 

More  melodious  to  me  was  the  cry  of  the  hounds, 

Than  of  thy  fchools,  O chafte  cleric.” 

He  is,  however,  mollified  by  a little  judicious  flattery, 
and  being  earneftly  requefted,  he  narrates  in  fome  very 
graphic  verfes  the  great  conflidt  between  his  chieftain 
Fionn  and  Manos.  The  poem  clofes  by  the  poet 
lamenting  his  decrepitude  and  change  of  circumftances 
in  fome  lines  which  (though  his  horror  of  the  faint’s 
pfalms  breaks  out  again  very  ludicrouflv)  are  full  of 
beauty  and  pathos.  This  demi-dramatic  ftrudture  is 
very  common  in  the  poems  of  this  era,  but  the 
dramatis  perfonre  always  remain  the  fame.  They  are 
referred  by  fome  to  the  eighth,  ninth,  and  tenth  cen- 
turies, but  others  with  much  more  probability  place 
them  as  late  as  the  eleventh  and  twelfth.* 

During  the  early  occupation  of  Ireland  by  the 
Englifh,  both  mufic  and  poetry  are  faid  to  have 
flourifhed  without  check  ; but  it  feems  certain  that  the 

* Any  one  defirous  of  ftudying  the  fubjedt  touched  on  above, 
will  find  ample  materials  in  the  following  works: — Walker’s 
“ Hiftorical  Memoirs  of  the  Irifh  Bards,”  Hardiman’s  “ Irifh 
Minftrelfy,”  Mifs  Brooke’s  “ Reliques  of  Irifh  Poetry,”  “ Publica- 
tions of  the  Offianic  Society,  Dublin,”  Simpfon’s  tc  Poems  of 
Oifin,”  O’Daly’s  “ Poets  and  Poetry  of  Munfter,”  Four  Reviews  of 
“ Hardiman’s  Minftrelfy  ” in  the  third  and  fourth  vols.  of  the  Dublin 
Univerjity  Magazine.  Thefe  laft  efpecially  will  repay  perufal. 


POE  TR  T OF  IRELAND. 


219 


bardic  charadter  began  at  this  time  to  lofe  fome  of  its 
dignity.  This  charadter  now  united  that  of  the  jefter 
of  an  Englifh  court  with  that  of  the  troubadour  of 
Provence.  The  chanting  at  feftivals  of  heroic  Jays 
was,  however,  ftill  their  principal  duty,  and  from  this 
we  do  not  know  of  their  having  declined  until  we  are 
informed  by  Spenfer,  that  in  his  time  they  had  begun 
to  employ  their  powers  in  praife  of  each  “ thiefe  and 
wicked  outlaw  which  hath  lived  all  his  lifetime  in 
fpoyles  and  robberies.”  This  affertion  has  been  re- 
peated until  its  truth  is  no  longer  queftioned ; but  it 
fhould  be  remembered  that  thefe  expreffions  are  what 
would  naturally  be  ufed  by  an  Englifh  courtier,  highly 
favoured  by  his  queen,  to  charadlerife  any  refiftance  to 
Englifh  authority. 

Spenfer  had  written  fome  verfes  which  pleafed 
Queen  Elizabeth,  and  fhe,  in  the  grand  manner  of  the 
Tudors,  diredted  her  treafurer  to  reward  the  poet. 
“ Give  him,”  fhe  faid,  “ reafon.”  The  treafurer,  how- 
ever (who  hated  Spenfer),  took  no  further  notice  of 
him.  Soon  after,  the  queen  received  the  following 
petition  from  her  poet:  — 

<e  Your  highnefs  ordered  on  a time 
I fhould  have  reafon  for  my  rhyme. 

From  that  time  unto  this  feafon 
I have  had  nor  rhyme  nor  reafon.” 

Reafon,  however,  he  did  at  laft  obtain,  or  what  was 
then  deemed  fo — a grant  of  fpoliated  lands  in  Ireland. 
Bearing  this  in  mind,  and  alfo  that  Elizabeth  had  pro- 
cured adls  of  parliament  to  be  palled  to  fupprefs  the 
bardic  order,  the  remarks  of  the  poet  will,  perhaps. 


220  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


bear  a different  conftru&ion,  and  the  fa£l  appear  to  be 
that  what  he  ftigmatizes  with  fuch  bitternefs  were,  in 
fad,  exhortations  of  the  bards  to  thofe  who  directed 
thefe  laft  itruggles  of  the  Irifh  people  for  their  inde- 
pendence. 

While  fpeaking  in  this  ftrain,  however,  Spenfer  pays 
a high  tribute  to  the  poetic  power  difplayed  in  the  pro- 
dudions  he  reprobates.  I offer  no  apology  for  quoting 
the  whole  of  this  curious  and  interefting  paffage.  While 
the  political  views  of  the  courtier  are  open  to  fufpicion, 
the  reludant  teflimony  to  the  genius  of  the  bards  of 
fuch  a witness  as  the  author  of  the  “ Fairy  Queen,”  is 
enhanced  by  the  animofity  which  he  evinces  in  fpeak- 
ing of  their  charader.  The  extrad,  I fhould  mention, 
occurs  in  the  work  entitled  a “ View  of  the  State  of  Ire- 
land,” in  which  Spenfer,  under  the  name  of  Irenaeus, 
gives  to  his  friend  Eudoxus  his  impreffions  of  Ireland 
and  her  people. 

ee  Eudox.  Methinks,  all  this  which  you  fpeake  of,  concerneth 
the  cuftomes  of  the  Irifh  very  materially,  for  their  ufes  in  warre 
are  of  no  fmall  importance  to  be  confidered,  as  well  to  reforme 
thofe  which  are  evill  as  to  confirme  and  continue  thofe  which  are 
good.  But  follow  your  owne  courfe,  and  fhew  what  other  cuftomes 
you  have  to  diflike  of. 

Iren . There  is  amongft  the  Irifh  a certaine  kind  of  people,  called 
bardes,  which  are  to  them  infteed  of  poets,  whofe  profeffion  is  to 
fet  foorth  the  praifes  or  difpraifes  of  men  in  their  poems  or  rymes, 
the  which  are  had  in  fo  high  regard  and  eftimation  amongft  them, 
that  none  dare  difpleafe  them  for  feare  to  runne  into  reproach 
thorough  their  offence,  and  to  be  made  infamous  in  the  mouthes 
of  all  men.  For  their  verfes  are  taken  up  with  a generall  applaufe, 
and  ufually  fung  at  all  feafts  and  meetings  by  certaine  other  perfons, 
whofe  proper  function  that  is,  who  alfo  receive  for  the  fame  great 
rewards  and  reputation  amongft  them. 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


221 


Eudox.  Do  you  blame  this  in  them  which  I would  otherwife 
have  thought  to  have  beene  worthy  of  goode  accompt,  and  rather 
to  have  beene  maintained  and  augmented  amongft  them,  than  to 
have  beene  difliked  ? 

* * * * * * * 

Iren.  It  is  moll  true,  that  fuch  poets  as  in  their  writings  doe 
labour  to  better  the  manners  of  men,  and  thorough  the  fweete 
baite  of  their  numbers,  to  fteale  into  the  yong  fpirits  a defire  of 
honour  and  vertue,  are  worthy  to  be  had  in  great  refpedt.  But 
thefe  Irifh  bardes  are  for  the  moll  part  of  another  minde,  and  fo  farre 
from  inflru&ing  yong  men  in  morall  difcipline,  that  they  them- 
felves  doe  more  deferve  to  be  {harpely  difciplined ; for  they  feldom 
ufe  to  choofe  unto  themfelves  the  doings  of  good  men  for  the 
arguments  of  their  poems,  but  whomfoever  they  find  to  be  moll 
licentious  of  life,  moll  bold  and  lawleffe  in  his  doings,  moll  dangerous 
and  defperate  in  all  parts  of  difobedience  and  rebellious  difpofition, 
him  they  fet  up  and  glorifie  in  their  rithmes,  him  they  praiie  to 
the  people,  and  to  yong  men  make  an  example  to  follow. 


* * * * * * * 

Eudox But  tell  me  (I  pray  you)  have  they  any  art  in 


their  compofitions  ? or  be  they  anything  wittie  or  well-favoured  as 
poemes  fhould  be  ? 

Iren . Yea  truly,  I have  caufed  divers  of  them  to  be  tranflated 
unto  me,  that  I might  underftand  them,  and  furely  they  favoured 
of  fweet  wit  and  good  invention,  but  fkilled  not  of  the  goodly 
ornaments  of  poetry  5 yet  were  they  fprinkled  with  fome  pretty 
flowers  of  their  naturall  device,  which  gave  good  grace  and  come- 
lineffe  unto  them,  the  which  it  is  great  pitty  to  fee  fo  abufed,  to 
the  gracing  of  wickednefs  and  vice,  which  with  good  ufage  would 
ferve  to  adorne  and  beautifie  vertue.”* 


* The  following  curious  anecdote  of  the  mode  in  which  Spenfer’s 
countrymen  at  this  time  employed  poetry  66  to  better  the  manners 
of  men”  has  been  kindly  communicated  to  me.  It  lupplies  a 
ftriking  commentary  on  the  above  paffage.  “ One  ^Enghus  Daly, 
who  was  termed  the  Bard  Ruadh  or  Red  Bard,  and  alfo  ^Enghus 
na-n-aer,  or  Angus  of  the  Satires,  was  employed  by  Mountjoy  and 
Sir  George  Carew  to  fatirize  the  good  Irifh  families,  and  for  this 
purpofe  made  a tour  of  Ireland.  As  we  all  like  attacks  on  our 


222  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


In  illuftration  of  this  period,  and  difproof  of  the  de- 
preciatory portion  of  thefe  remarks,  I regret  that  I am 
obliged  to  confine  myfelf  to  fome  ftanzas  of  the  elegant 
tranflation  by  Clarence  Mangan  of  the  “ Dark  Rofa- 
leen,” one  of  the  paffionate  outpourings  of  the  patriotifm 
of  this  tempeftuous  age.  It  is  in  the  form  of  an  Ode 
to  Ireland,  which  (owing  probably  to  the  penal  enact- 
ments of  Elizabeth’s  parliament)  was  commonly  ad- 
drelfed  by  the  poets  of  the  time  as  a beautiful  and  fuf- 
fering  girl.  The  fuppofed  fpeaker  is  the  celebrated 
Hugh  O’Donnell,  by  whofe  bard  it  was  compofed,  and 
the  allufions  to  “ Wine  from  the  royal  Pope”  and 
“ Spanifh  ale,”  are  of  courfe  merely  figurative  phrafes 
under  which  the  poet’s  fears  rather  than  his  fancy 
typified  the  hope  of  foreign  aid  to  the  breaking  powers 
of  his  countrymen. 

u Oh ! my  dark  Rofaleen, 

Do  not  figh,  do  not  weep  ! 

The  priefts  are  on  the  ocean  green, 

They  march  along  the  deep. 

There’s  wine  from  the  royal  Pope, 

Upon  the  ocean  green; 

And  Spanilh  ale  fhall  give  you  hope, 

My  dark  Rofaleen  ! 

My  own  Rofaleen ! 


friends,  he  was  liftened  to  in  his  progrefs  by  A while  he  was  at- 
tacking B,  C,  and  the  reft  of  the  alphabet.  At  laft,  however,  he 
came  to  the  houfe  of  O’Meagher  of  Ikerrin  in  the  county  Tip- 
perary, and  when  there  he  added  to  his  poem  a verfe  in  that  chief- 
tain’s praife.  One  of  the  fervants  of  O’Meagher,  irritated  by  the 
thought  that  his  mafter’s  name  fhould  be  difgraced  by  the  praife 
of  a hireling  who  had  libelled  all  the  good  Irifli  families,  ftabbed 
him,  and  this  was  the  end  of  ^Enghus  of  the  Satires.” 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


223 


Shall  glad  your  heart,  fliall  give  you  hope, 
Shall  give  you  health,  and  help,  and  hope, 
My  dark  Rofaleen ! 

u Over  hills,  and  through  dales, 

Have  I roamed  for  your  fake  ; 

All  yefterday  I failed  with  fails, 

On  river  and  on  lake, 

The  Erne,  at  his  higheft  flood, 

I dallied  acrofs  unfeen, 

For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  dark  Rofaleen ! 

My  own  Rofaleen  ! 

Oh  ! there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

Red  lightning  lightened  through  my  blood, 
My  dark  Rofaleen ! 

* * * * * * 

6i  Over  dews,  over  fands, 

Will  I fly  for  your  weal  5 
Your  holy  delicate  white  hands 
Shall  girdle  me  with  Heel. 

At  home  in  your  emerald  bowers, 

From  morning’s  dawn  till  e’en, 

You’ll  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  dark  Rofaleen ! 

My  fond  Rofaleen ! 

You’ll  think  of  me  through  daylight’s  hours, 
My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  dark  Rofaleen ! 

I could  fcale  the  blue  air, 

I could  plough  the  high  hills, 

Oh  ! I could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer, 

To  heal  your  many  ills  ! 

And  one  beamy  fmile  from  you 
Would  float  like  light  between 
My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 


224  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


My  dark  Rofaleen  ! 

My  fond  Rofaleen  ! 

Would  give  me  life  and  foul  anew, 

A fecond  life,  a foul  anew. 

My  dark  Rofaleen ! 

Ci  O ! the  Erne  fliall  run  red 
With  redundance  of  blood, 

The  earth  fhall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 

And  flames  wrap  hill  and  wood, 

And  gun-peal,  and  Slogan-cry, 

Wake  many  a glen  ferene, 

Ere  you  fliall  fade,  ere  you  fliall  die, 

My  dark  Rofaleen ! 

My  own  Rofaleen ! 

The  Judgment  hour  muft  firfl:  be  nigh, 

Ere  you  can  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 

My  dark  Rofaleen  ! ” 

Having  mentioned  Mangan’s  name  I cannot  refrain, 
though  at  the  rifk  of  violating  the  order  of  time,  from 
dwelling  for  a moment  on  the  ftory  of  a life  fo  deli- 
cately pure — fo  deeply  wronged,  fo  flighted  by  moll  of 
his  countrymen,  fo  unutterably  fad — the  complement 
to  that  trio  of  mifery  in  which  Savage  and  Chatterton 
were  firfi:  and  fecond. 

James  Clarence  Mangan  was  born  in  an  humble 
rank  in  life  in  the  beginning  of  the  prefent  century. 
The  llender  education  of  his  childhood  was  obtained 
in  the  Liberties  of  Dublin,  near  Chriftchurch  Cathe- 
dral. Then  he  entered  the  battle  of  life ; and  never 
fu rely  were  its  flings  and  arrows”  fhowered  on  one 

lefs  fitted  to  fuftain  or  to  return  them.  His  character 
is  thus  beautifully  delineated  in  a fingle  fentence,  and 
in  worthy  language,  by  one  who  knew  and  loved  him 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


225 


well.  “ He  was  Ihy  and  fenfitive,  with  exquifite  fenfi- 
bility  and  fine  impulfes : eye,  ear,  and  foul,  open  to  all 
the  mufic,  beauty,  and  glory  of  heaven  and  earth  : 
humble,  gentle,  and  unexacting:  craving  nothing  in 
the  world  but  celeitial  glorified  life — feraphic  love.” 
His  “ eye,  ear,  and  foul,”  were  not  however  deftined 
to  feaft  on  many  of  the  forms  and  founds  of  beauty 
fave  fuch  as  are  difclofed  to  the  inward  eye  and  heard  in 
folitude  and  filence.  For  feven  long  years  he  drudged 
as  a fcrivener.  He  then  rofe  in  life  and  became  an 
attorney’s  clerk.  During  this  time  he  fupported  out  of 
his  fcanty  wages  a brother,  filter,  and  mother.  After 
ten  years  in  all  of  this  work  he  vanifhes,  and  of  the 
blank  which  occurs  here  in  his  hillory  nothing  is  known, 
except  that  at  its  commencement  he  was  a buoyant 
youth,  and  at  its  dole,  though  Hill  a youth,  bowed, 
Itricken,  grey-haired.  One  thing  more  is  alfo  vaguely 
known — that  his  genius  had  raifed  him  to  a lociety  above 
his  own,  and  the  delicate  beauty  of  his  countenance 
had  won  for  him  the  patronage  of  a beautiful  girl,  of 
whom  we  know  nothing  but  the  chara&er.  She  call  her 
fpell  over  his  noble,  generous,  and  trufiful  heart,  amufed 
herfelf  with  it  after  her  kind,  and  then  broke  it. 

The  whole  tale  is  told  in  a few  fweet  lines  of  his 
very  limply  and  nobly — without  complaint,  without 
bitternefs : — 

u I faw  her  once  a little  while,  and  then  no  more — 

’Twas  paradife  on  earth  a while,  and  then  no  more. 

* * * * * * 

The  lhallop  of  my  peace  is  wrecked  on  Beauty’s  lhore — 
Near  Hope’s  fair  ille  it  rode  a while,  and  then  no  more.” 

Q 


226  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


The  name  of  the  lady  is  unknown.  Mangan  never 
uttered  it,  nor  in  any  way  expofed  to  fcorn  what  had 
fo  deeply  and  cruelly  wronged  him. 

He  was  now  about  thirty,  and  by  the  friendly  inter- 
vention of  three  gentlemen,  whofe  names  are  as  well 
known  as  they  are  highly  refpe&ed  by  moft  of  us,  he 
obtained  an  engagement  in  the  magnificent  library  of 
Trinity  College.  How  ferenely  happy  fuch  a man 
might  have  been  in  fuch  a place — among  learned  men, 
his  friends,  and  amid  the  lore  he  loved  fo  deeply — is 
eafily  conceived  ; but  his  fair  friend  had  done  her 
work  well,  and  Clarence  Mangan  was  now  an  opium- 
eater.  Brandy  fupplied  the  place  of  his  proper  food. 
The  reft  is  almoft  too  painful  to  dwell  upon.  By 
fuch  ftimulants  as  thefe  he  fuftained  the  force  of  his 
genius  for  fome  years,  and  filled  the  Irifh  magazines  and 
papers — the  Dublin  Univerfety , the  Nation , and  the 
United  Irijbman  — with  exquifite  tranflations  from 
many  tongues.  At  length  his  conftitution,  faturated 
with  the  poifon,  and  unfupported  by  fufficient  nutri- 
ment, began  to  give  way.  A few  ftaunch  friends 
endeavoured  to  aid  him  in  his  extremity.  Suddenly  he 
difappeared,  and  was  after  fome  days  found  concealed 
in  a houfe  in  Bride-ftreet.  At  his  urgent  requeft  he 
was  conveyed  to  the  Meath  Hofpital,  and  there,  on 
the  20th  of  June,  1849,  a friend  was,  by  his 

wifh,  reading  to  him  one  of  the  penitential  hymns  of 
his  Church,  his  gentle,  unrepining  fpirit  palled  away  to 
that  land  for  which,  in  his  fweeteft  verfes,  he  yearns 
with  fo  deep  and  paflionate  a longing  : — 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


227 


<£  O ! undeveloped  land, 

Whereto  I fain  would  flee, 

What  mighty  hand  fliall  break  the  band 
That  keeps  my  foul  from  thee  ? 

66  In  vain  I pine  and  figh 

To  trace  thy  dells  and  ftreams  : 

They  gleam  but  by  the  fpe&ral  Iky 
That  lights  my  Ihifting  dreams. 

cc  Ah  ! what  fair  form  flitting  through  yon  green  glades 
Dares  mine  eye  ? Spirit,  oh  ! rive  my  chain ! 

Woe  is  my  foul ! Swiftly  the  viflon  fades, 

And  I ftart  up — waking — to  weep  in  vain.” 

Mangan  wrote  without  effort,  and  the  defcription  of 
his  poetry  given  by  himfelf  in  his  terrible  pi&ure  of 
“ The  Namelefs  One,”  is,  as  a general  criticifm,  the 
befb,  perhaps,  that  could  be  given.  “His  foul,”  he 
fays,  “ had  been  mated — 

ic  With  fong  which  alway,  fublime  or  vapid, 

Flowed  like  a rill  in  the  morning  beam, 

Perchance  not  deep,  but  intenfe  and  rapid — 

A mountain  ftream.” 

Yet  there  is  no  abfence  of  finifh  perceptible,  and 
fuch  was  his  inflindlive  delicacy  that  I believe  hardly  a 
word  will  be  found  in  his  poems  that  could  offend  the 
mofl  fenfitive  ear  or  the  moft  faflidious  refinement  of 
tafle.  Pure,  delicate,  foft,  and  lucid  as  the  depths  of 
thofe  blue  eyes  of  which  his  admirers  love  to  tell  us, 
his  poetry,  neverthelefs,  gleams  fometimes  (as  in 
“ Rofaleen  ” and  the  u German’s  Fatherland  ”)  with  an 
intenfity  that  flartles,  coming  from  fo  gentle  a foul. 
His  worfl  fault — a certain  hazinefs  of  thought  which. 


228 


BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


againft  his  better  nature,  he  at  times  affe&s — was  pro- 
bably caught  from  his  familiarity  with  his  German 
originals,  but  will,  I think,  be  found  to  be  more  than 
atoned  for  by  fuch  fingular  fweetnefs  of  verification  as 
is  difplayed  in  the  “Lady  Eleanora  Von  Alleyne.” 
But  his  chief  title  to  admiration  muft  always  lie  in  the 
lithe  and  graceful  pliancy  of  his  didlion  and  perfedl 
chaftity  of  every  thought. 

From  this  brief  notice  of  Mangan,  I muft  now 
return  to  clofe  my  very  imperfedl  Iketch  of  the  early 
Celtic  literature. 

The  century  which  followed  Elizabeth  produced  a 
few  remarkable  bards,  but  the  glory  of  their  calling 
had  departed.  They  fang  no  longer  to  their  chieftains 
the  great  deeds  of  their  anceftors.  Their  lays  became 
mere  perfonal  panegyrics.  At  length  the  tie  of  bard 
and  chieftain  itfelf  was  broken,  and  the  laft  reprefenta- 
tive  of  the  race  was  little  more  than  a ftrolling  minftrel 
— a troubadour  received,  no  doubt,  with  high  honour 
by  all  at  whofe  houfes  or  caftles  he  chofe  to  ftay,  but 
permanently  refident  with  none.  This  laft  of  the  bards 
was  the  great  Carolan.  This  fingular  and  various 
genius  was  born  about  the  year  1670  at  Nobber,  in 
Weftmeath,  and  foon  began  to  produce  the  firft  founds 
of  that  divine  muftc  which  was  deftined  to  immor- 
talize his  name.  He  was  alfo  a poet  of  fome  emi- 
nence. He  wandered  from  province  to  province,  and 
everywhere  was  fplendidly  received.  In  return  he 
compofed  an  air  and  words  in  honour  of  each  of  his 
entertainers.  He  too,  it  Ihould  be  obferved,  like  the 
bards  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  employed  a harper,  who 


POETRT  OF  IRELAND . 


229 


accompanied  him,  notwithftanding  his  proficiency  in 
mufic.  The  hiftory  of  his  life  is  full  of  curious  anec- 
dotes ; and  his  love  for  Bridget  Cruife,  the  unrivalled 
fweetnefs  of  the  air  in  which  the  paflion  awakened  by 
her  charms  is  recorded,  and  his  ftrange  recognition  of  her 
(after  years  of  abfence  and  blind nefs)  by  the  touch  of  her 
hand,  inveft  his  wandering  life  with  an  air  of  romance. 
His  poetry,  too,  contains  fome  palfages  of  delicacy  and 
pathos — fome  of  great  geniality  and  humour  ; but  it  is 
neceffary  to  haften  on  to  a new  race  of  poets.  Of  the 
bards,  properly  fo  called,  we  now  take  our  leave,  and  in 
doing  fo  I fhall  only  afk  you  to  obferve  that  during  the 
immenfe  period  over  which  we  have  paffed  no  ten- 
dency towards  the  fuflained  efforts  of  any  flight  higher 
than  the  ballad  or  lyric  can  be  difeerned. 

The  laft  century  cannot  be  laid  to  have  contributed 
anything  to  this  fpecies  of  poetry  fave  fome  Jacobite 
fongs,  and  fome  fuch  pieces  as  that  fweet  lament 
called  “The  Fair  Hills  of  Pleafant  Ireland.”  Poets, 
indeed,  it  did  produce.  Congreve  and  Parnell  are  faid 
to  have  been  Irifhmen.  Goldfmith  and  Sheridan  were 
certainly  Irilhmen.  But  though  Parnell  and  Goldfmith 
poffeffed  feeling,  they  are  in  outward  garb  as  Englifli 
as  Grey  ; and  Congreve  and  Sheridan  are  as  arid  in 
poetry  as  they  are  dazzling  in  wit.  In  fad,  no  lyrift 
Irifh  as  well  in  form  as  eflence,  appears  till  the  greateft 
of  all  breaks  fuddenly  to  light  in  Moore.  His  well- 
known  boaft  was  as  juft  as  it  is  beautiful.  He  it  was 
who  re  awakened  the  harp  of  Ireland,  u and  gave  all 
its  chords  to  light,  beauty,  and  fong.” 

Of  Moore,  however,  I feel  that  it  would  be  idle  to 


230  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


fpeak  here  ; I aim  merely  at  giving  a general  pi&ure, 
and  his  figure  is  one  too  familiar  to  you  all  to  gain  any 
vividnefs  from  a momentary  touch  ; I lhall,  therefore, 
paufe  only  at  his  contemporaries. 

Among  thefe,  and  only  overfhadowed  by  him,  is  a 
duller  of  poets  polfefling  in  the  very  higheffc  degree  the 
chief  excellencies  of  the  national  poetry.  Earliell  and 
firft  of  thefe  is  John  Banim,  bell  known  as  a novelill, 
but  whofe  delicate  knowledge  of  Xrifh  chara&er,  vigour 
of  expreflion,  and  depth  of  feeling,  placed  him  high  as 
a poet  too,  notwithllanding  a certain  ruggednefs  both 
in  llrudlure  and  verification,  and  great  unevennefs  in 
the  quality  of  his  thoughts.  The  ballad  of  “ Soggarth 
Aroon,”  in  which  the  attachment  of  the  Irifh  peafant 
to  the  Catholic  priellhood  is  pourtrayed  with  the  moll 
touching  limplicity,  will  be  found  to  contain  an  excel- 
lent exemplification  of  his  power.  Its  llyle  and  fpirit 
may  be  colle&ed  from  a few  of  the  doling  llanzas 

c(  Who,  in  the  winter’s  night, 

Soggarth  aroon,* 

When  the  cold  blaft  did  bite, 

Soggarth  aroon, 

Came  to  my  cabin-door, 

And  on  my  earthen  flure 
Knelt  by  me,  Tick  and  poor, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

<e  Who,  on  the  marriage-day, 

Soggarth  aroon, 

Made  the  poor  cabin  gay, 

Soggarth  aroon — 


* Prieft  dear. 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND . 


231 


And  did  both  laugh  and  ling, 

Making  our  hearts  to  ring, 

At  the  poor  chriftening, 

Soggarth  aroon? 

(f  Who,  as  friend  only  met, 

Soggarth  aroon, 

Never  did  flout  me  yet, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

And  when  my  hearth  was  dim 
Gave,  while  his  eye  did  brim, 

What  I Ihould  give  to  him — 

Soggarth  aroon  ? ** 

John  Philpot  Curran  is  alfo  among  the  poets  of  this 
era.  He  has  not,  indeed,  written  enough  to  challenge 
criticifm ; but  what  he  might  have  done  is  fhown  by 
the  metrical  power  difplayed  in  the  poem  of  “ The 
Deferter’s  Meditation/’  The  flory  of  its  origin  is  thus 
told  in  the  life  of  the  orator  by  his  fon  : — 

“ As  Mr.  Curran  was  travelling  an  unfrequented 
road,  he  perceived  a man  in  a foldier’s  drefs  fitting 
by  the  road-fide,  and  apparently  much  exhaufled  by 
fatigue  and  agitation.  He  invited  him  to  take  a feat  in 
his  chaife,  and  foon  difcovered  that  he  was  a deferter. 
Having  flopped  at  a fmall  inn  for  refrefhment,  Mr. 
Curran  obferved  to  the  foldier  that  he  had  committed 
an  offence  of  which  the  penalty  was  death,  and  that 
his  chance  of  efcaping  it  was  but  fmall.  * Tell  me, 
then,  (continued  he,)  whether  you  feel  difpofed  to  pafs 
the  little  remnant  of  life  that  is  left  you  in  penitence 
and  failing,  or  whether  you  would  prefer  to  drown 
your  forrow  in  a merry  glafs?’  The  following  is  the 
deferter’s  anfwer,  which  Mr.  Curran,  in  compofing  it, 
adapted  to  a plaintive  Iriih  air  : ” — 


232  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


“ If  fadly  thinking,  with  fpirits  finking, 

Could  more  than  drinking  my  cares  compofe, 

A cure  for  forrow  from  fighs  I’d  borrow, 

And  hope  to-morrow  would  end  my  woes. 

But  as  in  wailing  there’s  nought  availing, 

And  death  unfailing  will  ftrike  the  blow, 

Then  for  that  reafon,  and  for  a feafon, 

Let  us  be  merry  before  we  go  ! 

((  To  joy  a ftranger,  a way-worn  ranger, 

In  ev’ry  danger  my  courfe  I’ve  run  ; 

Now  hope  all  ending,  and  death  befriending, 

His  laft  aid  lending,  my  cares  are  done  : 

No  more  a rover,  or  haplefs  lover, 

My  griefs  are  over — my  glafs  runs  low  ; 

Then  for  that  reafon,  and  for  a feafon, 

Let  us  be  merry  before  we  go ! ” 

Then  follow  Wolfe,  the  gifted  author  of  the  “ Burial 
of  Sir  John  Moore;  ” and  Gerald  Griffin,  the  yet  more 
gifted  author,  who  at  twenty-one  produced  the  greateft 
of  Irifh  novels,  “ The  Collegians.”  The  former,  though 
he  was  prevented  by  an  early  death  from  giving  much 
to  the  world,  yet  has  left  a ballad  behind  which 
won  the  highelt  praife  of  Lord  Byron,  and  was  for  a 
time  attributed  by  fome  to  that  noble  poet,  by  fome  to 
Coleridge,  and  by  others  to  Campbell.  Griffin  Hill  lives 
in  many  poems  of  exquifite  fweetnefs,  delicacy,  and  fad- 
nefs.  The  following  brief  model  of  eafy  alliterative 
melody  is  from  his  well-known  poem  of  Gille 
Macree  : — 

(£  I might  have  faid, 

My  mountain  maid, 

Come  live  with  me,  your  own  true  lover — 

I know  a fpot, 

A filent  cot, 

Your  friends  will  ne’er  difcover, 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND.  233 

Where  gently  flows  the  wavelefs  tide 
By  one  fmall  garden  only, 

Where  the  heron  waves  his  wing  fo  wide 
And  the  linnet  fings  fo  lonely.” 

At  this  time  too  lived  Callanan,  the  mountain-loving 
poet  of  the  South,  in  whom  the  adoration  of  nature  feems 
abfolutely  at  his  height.  His  addrelTes  to  fpots  he 
loved  were  more  like  the  impaffioned  utterances  of  a 
lover  to  his  mibrefs,  than  calm  affe&ion  for  haunts  we 
have  long  known.  His  poem  of  Gougane  Barra  is  the 
fineil  example  of  this  devoted  love.  It  would,  how- 
ever, be  difficult  to  read  any  portion  of  his  poems 
without  being  ftruck  by  this  and  the  almob  Amcebaean 
foftnefs  which  it  feems  to  impart.  A good  example  of 
both  may  be  found  in  his  poem  of  “ Avondhu.” 

Lyfaght,  and  the  birring  poet  of  the  North  Drennan, 
though  in  point  of  fubje£l  prior  to  thofe  of  whom  I 
have  fpoken,  were  of  this  age.  The  former  has  written 
many  political  fongs  full  of  life  and  gaiety,  and  his 
“ Kate  of  Garnavilla”  is  a lingular  example  of  the  plea- 
fure  that  may  be  given  by  the  mere  bringing  together 
of  mufical  words.  The  latter  is  on  the  contrary  bern 
and  paffionate,  and  the  march  of  his  verfe  beady  and 
dignified.  The  opening  lines  of  the  “ Wake  of  Wil- 
liam Orr”  are  in  his  beb  byle. 

<c  Here  our  murdered  brother  lies; 

Wake  him  not  with  woman’s  cries  : 

Mourn  the  way  that  manhood  ought; 

Sit  in  fllent  trance  of  thought. 

Write  his  merits  on  your  mind  : 

Morals  pure  and  manners  kind  : 

In  his  head  as  on  a hill, 

Virtue  placed  her  citadel. 


234  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


Why  cut  off  in  palmy  youth  ? 

Truth  he  fpoke  and  adted  truth. 

Countrymen,  unite,  he  cried, 

And  died — for  what  his  Saviour  died.” 

His  fong  €€  When  Erin  firft  rofe”  is,  however,  that 
by  which  he  is  now  beft  known,  and,  though  its  lan- 
guage is  occafionally  rather  ftiff,  it  contains  many  lines 
of  unqueftionable  power  and  beauty.  But  we  muft 
pafs  on  to  another  race  of  poets — the  race  which  counts 
among  its  chieftains,  Davis,  Fergufon,  Mangan,  and 
M‘Carthy. 

The  pure  and  Ample  ballad — a rapid  nervous  nar- 
rative in  rhyme — found  a confummate  mailer  in  Thomas 
Davis : 

c(  In  his  hand 

The  thing  became  a trumpet,  whence  he  blew 
Soul-animating  ftrains.” 

To  him  had  been  vouchfafed  in  an  unufual  meafure  the 
“ powers  of  fpeech  that  ilir  men’s  blood.”  His  youth 
and  early  manhood  were  palled  in  gathering  and  hoarding 
knowledge  ; and  it  was  not  till  late  in  life  that  the  fprings 
of  lore  and  fancy  that  were  in  him — of  hopes  and 
memories  and  fad  and  noble  thoughts — buril  into  light. 
But  then  they  overflowed  like  fubterranean  fires — wave 
after  wave — in  a torrent  of  refiillefs  power.  He  felt 
within  him  thoughts  that  muft  be  fpoken,  and  fo  he 
fpake  right  on,  heightening  fome  part  of  his  pi&ure  by 
every  touch,  but  rarely  if  ever  deigning  to  ufe  a colour 
which  does  not  intenfify  the  whole.  When  embellifh- 
ments  are  ufed  by  him  they  feem  to  force  a way  by 
native  vigour  through  a reludlant  foil,  or  to  hang  like 


POETRT  OF  IRELAND. 


235 


flowers  on  the  margin  of  a rufhing  llream — drawing 
life  and  frefhnefs  from  its  waters  but  offering  no  im- 
pediment to  its  career.  This  diredlnefs  of  didtion  is 
feconded  (if  not  produced)  by  a fincerity  of  foul — an 
earneftnefs  and  purity  of  purpofe,  and  an  intrepid  love 
of  what  he  confidered  truth,  which  at  once  difclofe  the 
fecret  of  his  power.  Equally  diredl,  and,  as  a fource 
of  his  poetic  efficiency,  almoff  equally  potent,  was  his 
paflionate  devotion  to  his  country  and  all  her  people. 
He  loves  to  let  his  genius  dwell  in  vivid  dreams  among 
the  few  but  precious  relics  of  the  ancient  grandeur  of 
Ireland  and  the  records  of  her  former  glories.  One  of 
thefe — on  which  Irifhmen  dwell  with  natural  pride,  is 
accordingly  the  lubjedt  of  the  poem  in  which  his  powers 
are  in  my  opinion  difplayed  in  their  higheft  excellence — 
the  ballad  of  “ Fontenoy.” 

It  would  be  fuperfluous  to  advert,  before  fuch  an 
audience,  to  the  political  events  which,  in  the  half  cen- 
tury previous  to  that  celebrated  battle,  had  driven  into 
the  ranks  of  Louis  of  France,  and  placed  under  Marfhal 
Saxe,  that  band  of  exiles  who  (with  Lord  Clare  at  their 
head)  formed  what  is  known  to  hiftory  as  the  Irifh 
Brigade.  The  incidents  of  the  battle  itfelf  are  narrated 
by  the  poet  fo  clearly  and  with  fuch  hifforic  accuracy 
as  to  need  no  words  but  his  own. 

“ FONTENOY. 

“ Thrice,  at  the  huts  of  Fontenoy,  the  Englifli  column  failed, 

And  twice  the  lines  of  St.  Antoine  the  Dutch  in  vain  aflailed ; 

For  town  and  Hope  were  filled  with  fort  and  flanking  battery, 

And  well  they  fwept  the  Englifli  ranks,  and  Dutch  auxiliary. 

As,  vainly,  through  De  Barri’s  wood  the  Britifh  foldiers  burft, 

The  French  artillery  drove  them  back,  diminifh’d  and  difperfed. 


236  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


The  bloody  Duke  of  Cumberland  beheld  with  anxious  eye, 

And  ordered  up  his  laft  referve  his  lateft  chance  to  try. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  how  faft  his  generals  ride, 

And  muftering  come  his  chofen  troops,  like  clouds  at  eventide. 

<c  Six  thoufand  Englifh  veterans  in  ftately  column  tread, 

Their  cannon  blaze  in  front  and  flank — Lord  Hay  is  at  their  head  ; 
Steady  they  ftep  adown  the  flope — fteady  they  climb  the  hill  ; 
Steady  they  load — fteady  they  fire,  moving  right  onward  ftill, 
Betwixt  the  wood  and  Fontenoy,  as  through  a furnace  blaft, 
Through  rampart,  trench,  and  palifade,  and  bullets  fhowering  faft ; 
And  on  the  open  plain  above  they  rofe,  and  kept  their  courfe, 

With  ready  fire  and  grim  refolve,  that  mocked  at  hoftile  force  : 

Paft  Fontenoy,  paft  Fontenoy,  while  thinner  grow  their  ranks — 
They  break,  as  broke  the  Zuyder  Zee  through  Holland’s  ocean  banks. 

iC  More  idly  than  the  fummer  flies,  French  tirailleurs  rufh  round ; 
As  ftubble  to  the  lava  tide,  French  fquadrons  ftrew  the  ground; 
Bomb-ftiell,  and  grape,  and  round-lhot  tore,  ftill  on  they  marched 
and  fired — 

Faft  from  each  volley  grenadier  and  voltigeur  retired. 
c Pufli  on,  my  houfehold  cavalry !’  King  Louis  madly  cried  : 

To  death  they  rufh,  but  rude  their  fhock — not  unavenged  they  died. 
On  through  the  camp  the  column  trod — King  Louis  turns  his  rein  : 
c Not  yet,  my  liege,’  Saxe  interpofed,  ‘ the  Irifli  troops  remain  ;’ 
And  Fontenoy,  famed  Fontenoy,  had  been  a Waterloo, 

Were  not  thefe  exiles  ready  then,  frefli,  vehement,  and  true. 

<(  e Lord  Clare,’  he  fays,  ‘ you  have  your  wifli,  there  are  your  Saxon  foes !’ 
The  Madhal  almoft  fmiles  to  fee  how  furioufly  he  goes ! 

How  fierce  the  look  thofe  exiles  wear,  who’re  wont  to  be  fo  gay, 
The  treafured  wrongs  of  fifty  years  are  in  their  hearts  to-day  — 

The  treaty  broken,  ere  the  ink  wherewith  ’twas  writ  could  dry, 
Their  plundered  homes,  their  ruined  fhrines,  their  women’s  parting 
cry, 

Their  priefthood  hunted  down  like  wolves,  their  country  overthrown, 
Each  looks  as  if  revenge  for  all  were  ftaked  on  him  alone. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  nor  ever  yet  elfewhere, 

Rufhed  on  to  fight  a nobler  band  than  thefe  proud  exiles  were. 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND . 


2 37 


“ O’Brien’s  voice  is  hoarfe  with  joy,  as  halting,  he  commands, 

‘ Fix  bayonets — charge  ! ’ — Like  mountain  ftorm  rufh  on  thefe  fiery 
bands. 

Thin  is  the  Englitfi  column  now,  and  faint  their  volleys  grow, 

Yet,  muftering  all  the  ftrength  they  have,  they  make  a gallant  fhow. 
They  drefs  their  ranks  upon  the  hill  to  face  that  battle-wind — 
Their  bayonets  the  breaker’s  foam  3 like  rocks,  the  men  behind  ! 
One  volley  cralhes  from  their  line,  when,  through  the  {urging 
fmoke, 

With  empty  guns  clutched  in  their  hands,  the  headlong  Irifh  broke. 
On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  hark  to  that  fierce  huzza ! 

‘ Revenge!  remember  Limerick!  dalh  down  the  Sacfanach!’ 

Like  lions  leaping  at  a fold,  when  mad  with  hunger’s  pang, 

Right  up  againft  the  Englilh  line  the  Irifli  exiles  fprang : 

Bright  was  their  fteel,  ’tis  bloody  now,  their  guns  are  filled  with  gore ; 
Through  fhattered  ranks,  and  fevered  files,  and  trampled  flags  they 
tore : 

The  Englilh  ftrove  with  defperate  ftrength,  paufed,  rallied,  ftaggered, 
fled — 

The  green  hill-fide  is  matted  clofe  with  dying  and  with  dead. 
Across  the  plain,  and  far  away  paflfed  on  that  hideous  wrack, 
While  cavalier  and  fantaflin  dalh  in  upon  their  track. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  like  eagles  in  the  fun, 

With  bloody  plumes  the  Irifh  ftand — the  field  is  fought  and  won  ! ” 

In  a very  different  key  is  written  the  fad,  fweet  lyric 
called  “ The  Loft  Path,”  in  which  the  fpirit  of  the  poet 
of  Fontenoy  is  prefent  ftill,  but  chaftened  by  the  ufes 
of  adverfity  and  all  but  broken  by  a burden  of  forrow 
too  great  for  him  to  bear.  The  ringing  notes  which  in 
the  ballad  ftir  the  foul  to  its  loweft  depths  here  feem 
juft  to  reach  the  ear,  and  then  to  recede  like  departing 
mufic, 

“ Sweet  thoughts,  bright  dreams,  my  comfort  be, 

All  comfort  elfe  is  flown  5 
For  every  hope  was  falfe  to  me, 

And  here  I am  alone. 


2 3 8 BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


What  thoughts  were  mine  in  early  youth  ! 

Like  fome  old  Irilh  fong, 

Brimful  of  love  and  life  and  truth, 

My  fpirit  guftied  along. 

Ci  I hoped  to  right  my  native  ifle, 

I hoped  a foldier’s  fame, 

I hoped  to  reft  in  woman’s  fmile, 

And  win  a minftrel’s  name. 

Ah ! little  have  I ferved  my  land, 

No  laurels  prefs  my  brow, 

I have  no  woman’s  heart  or  hand, 

No  minftrel  honours  now. 

u But  fancy  has  a magic  power, 

She  brings  me  wreath  and  crown, 

And  woman’s  love,  the  felf-fame  hour 
She  fmites  oppreffion  down. 

Sweet  thoughts,  bright  dreams,  my  comfort  be, 

I have  no  joy  beftde  j 
Oh  ! throng  around,  and  be  to  me 
Power,  country,  fame,  and  bride.” 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  I muft  here  paufe  to  fay  that 
I hope  it  will  be  diftindtly  underftood  that  I hand  here 
for  no  purpofe  but  to  alk  your  attention  and  admiration 
to  the  genius  of  our  countrymen.  With  their  creed, 
their  principles,  or  their  politics,  I have  nothing  here 
to  do.  For  this  reafon  I have  not  helitated  to  feleft 
from  thefe  poems — whatever  was  their  political  purpofe, 
whatever  is  their  political  tendency — juft  fuch  paflages 
as  appeared  to  me  beft  to  illuftrate  the  peculiar  endow- 
ments of  the  writers,  implicitly  trufting  to  you  not  to 
mifconceive  me.  I have,  too,  aflumed  that  there  was 
one  fentiment  which  all  of  you  would  entertain  in  com- 
mon with  the  poet — pride,  I mean,  in  every  Irilh  honour. 


POETRT  OF  IRELAND. 


239 


I knew  that  thofe  whom  I fhould  addrefs,  while  they 
were  incapable  of  vulgar  gafconade,  were  as  far  above 
that  wretched  affectation  which  fancies  that  it  becomes 
fC  Englifh”  by  being  afhamed  of  its  own,  and  would 
fink  a nationality  of  which  it  may  juftly  be  proud  to 
join  in  the  growing  cant  of  imperialifm.  I know  that 
there  are  few,  if  any,  who  hear  me,  to  whom  allegiance 
to  a juft  government  and  loyalty  to  our  Queen  do  not 
feem  a facred  duty — a facred  fentiment— but  I know 
that  there  are  prefent  none  to  whom  their  country  is 
not  a fubjeCt  of  deep  affeClion,  and  her  achievements  of 
proud  remembrance.  There  is  no  inconttttency ; and 
the  heart  of  an  Irifhman  is  not  in  its  right  place  which 
does  not  throb  fatter  at  the  recollection  of  days  like 
Fontenoy  when  Irifh  troops  fwept  their  foes  before 
them,  and  on  hard-contefted  fields  put  to  the  blufh  even 
the  dogged  refolution  of  Englifh  courage  and  the  gay 
and  feftive  gallantry  of  the  boldett  blood  of  France.  In 
the  fpirit  of  thefe  poems  I go  thus  far  and  no  further. 
Before  an  Irifh  audience  fuch  fympathy  feems  to  me 
perfectly  legitimate.  I neither  feel  nor  with  to  awaken 
any  other. 

It  is  with  regret  that  I leave  with  fo  little  notice  and 
fo  little  example  the  volume  which  contains  the  “ Geral- 
dines,” “ Sweet  and  Sad,”  u The  Sack  of  Baltimore,” 
and  “ The  Battle  Eve  of  the  Brigade,”  even  though 
it  be  to  pafs  on  to  one  fo  well  worthy  to  be  placed  by 
the  fide  of  Davis  as  the  author  of  the  “ Welfhmen  of 
Tyrawley.” 

I mutt  frankly  confefs  myfelf  unable  to  offer  you  any 
adequate  eftimate  of  the  poems  of  Samuel  Fergufon. 


240  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


Familiar  as  moll  of  them  are  to  readers  of  poetry,  the 
modefty  of  their  author  has  denied  to  himfelf  the 
enlarged  fame,  and  to  the  public  the  increafed  gratifi- 
cation, which  a complete  edition  of  his  works  would 
confer  on  the  one  and  on  the  other.  To  pafs  a fairjudg- 
ment  on  the  works  of  any  writer  thofe  works  mull  be 
read  as  a whole.  Other  reafons,  too,  make  me  feel 
that  my  criticifm  would  not  be  reliable.  Some  here 
who  enjoy  the  happinefs  of  focial  intercourfe  with  him 
will  underfiand  how  painful  and  ungracious  would  be 
the  talk  of  touching  the  blemifhes  (if  blemifhes  there 
be)  of  one  himfelf  fo  incapable  of  cenforious  judgment 
— fo  deeply  imbued  with  the  fpirit  of  large-hearted  and 
genial  admiration.  Beauties,  too,  unqueftionably  his 
would,  I am  confcious,  appear  fanciful  to  thofe  who 
have  no  perfonal  acquaintance  with  the  cordial  humour, 
the  wide,  unftinted  charity,  the  overflowing  meafure  of 
love  to  man  and  nature,  which  fill  and  animate  the 
heart  from  which  thofe  beauties  fprang.  His  leading 
excellencies,  however,  will  be  found  to  be  admirably 
exemplified  in  one  of  his  earlieft  poems,  “ The  Forging 
of  the  Anchor.”  Noble  as  it  is,  this  is  in  my  judg- 
ment by  no  means  the  fineft,  or  even  moll  fpirited  of 
his  poems ; but  from  its  opening  lines  fome  idea  will 
be  formed  of  the  poet’s  graphic  Ikill,  his  geniality  of 
nature,  his  marvellous  rhythmical  power,  his  fteady 
nervous  progrefs  towards  his  end,  and  the  confummate 
art  with  which  every  word  and  epithet  is  made  to  do 
its  work  in  welding  the  whole  into  one  compact 
mafs : — 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND . 


241 


« THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 

“ Come,  fee  the  Dolphin’s  anchor  forged — ’tis  at  a white  heat 
now  $ 

The  bellows  ceafed,  the  flames  decreafed — though  on  the  forge’s 
brow 

The  little  flames  flill  fitfully  play  through  the  fable  mound, 
And  fitfully  you  ftill  may  fee  the  grim  fmiths  ranking  round, 
All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad  arms  only  bare — 

Some  reft  upon  their  fledges  here,  fome  work  the  windlafs 
there. 

u The  windlafs  ftrains  the  tackle-chains,  the  black  mound  heaves 
below, 

And  red  and  deep  a hundred  veins  burft  out  at  every  throe  : 

It  rifes,  roars,  rends  all  outright — O,  Vulcan,  what  a glow  ! 

’Tis  blinding  white,  ’tis  blafting  bright — the  high  fun  fhines 
not  fo  ! 

The  high  fun  fees  not,  on  the  earth,  fuch  fiery  fearful  fhow  ; 
The  roof-ribs  fwarth,  the  candent  hearth,  the  ruddy  lurid  row 
Of  fmiths  that  ftand,  an  ardent  band,  like  men  before  the  foe. 
As  quivering  through  his  fleece  of  flame,  the  failing  monfter,  flow 
Sinks  on  the  anvil — all  about  the  faces  fiery  grow. 

* Hurrah  ! ’ they  fhout,  ‘leap  out — leap  out!  ’ bang,  bang,  the 
fledges  go : 

Hurrah  ! the  jetted  lightnings  are  hilling  high  and  low — 

A hailing  fount  of  fire  is  ftruck  at  every  fquafhing  blow, 

The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail,  the  rattling  cinders  ftrew 
The  ground  around  : at  every  bound  the  fweltering  fountains 
flow, 

And  thick  and  loud  the  fwinking  crowd  at  every  ftroke 
pant  ‘ ho  ! * 

“ Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  matters  ; leap  out  and  lay  on  load ! 

Let’s  forge  a goodly  anchor — a bower  thick  and  broad  $ 

For  a heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every  blow,  I bode, 

And  I fee  the  good  fhip  riding,  all  in  a perilous  road — 

The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee — the  roll  of  ocean  poured 
From  ftem  to  ftern,  fea  after  fea  : the  main-maft  by  the  board  $ 
R 


242 


BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


The  bulwarks  down,  the  rudder  gone,  the  boats  ftove  at  the 
chains ! 

But  courage  ftill,  brave  mariners — the  bower  yet  remains, 

And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns,  fave  when  ye  pitch  Iky 
high; 

Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he  faid,  * Fear  nothing — here 
am  I.*  ” 

I have  already  fpoken  of  the  works  of  Clarence 
Mangan,  and  his  untimely  death,  otherwife  his  place 
in  this  Iketch  would  be  here,  fide  by  fide  with  the 
author  of  the  “Waiting  for  the  May.”  The  latter  is 
ftill  among  us,  and  is  every  day  giving  proof  of  a refining 
and  maturing  of  thofe  powers  to  whofe  early  exertion 
we  are  indebted  for  that  ode  which  fo  naturally  con- 
ne&s  itfelf  with  his  name.  I have  the  more  pleafure  in 
reproducing  it  becaufe,  by  an  error  (unconfcious  of 
courfe),  a recent  colledlor  has  attributed  to  another  the 
fame  of  its  authorfhip.  It  is  almoft  fuperfluous  to  afk 
attention  to  the  varied  fweetnefs  of  its  numbers,  to  the 
eafy  fimplicity  of  its  expreflion,  and  to  the  graceful 
freedom  which  refults  from  both  : — 

“ SUMMER  LONGINGS. 

((  Ah  ! my  heart  is  weary,  waiting, 

Waiting  for  the  May — 

Waiting  for  the  pleafant  rambles 
Where  the  fragrant  hawthorn  brambles, 

With  the  woodbine  alternating, 

Scent  the  dewy  way  : — 

Ah  ! my  heart  is  weary,  waiting, 

Waiting  for  the  May. 

u Ah  ! my  heart  is  fick  with  longing, 

Longing  for  the  May — 

Longing  to  efcape  from  ftudy, 

To  the  young  face  fair  and  ruddy, 


POETRT  OF  IRELAND. 


243 


And  the  thoufand  charms  belonging 
To  the  fummer’s  day  : — 

Ah  ! my  heart  is  lick  with  longing, 

Longing  for  the  May. 

(C  Ah  ! my  heart  is  fore  with  fighing, 

Sighing  for  the  May — 

Sighing  for  their  fure  returning, 

When  the  fummer  beams  are  burning, 

Hopes  and  flowers  that  dead  or  dying 
All  the  winter  lay  : — 

Ah  ! my  heart  is  fore  with  fighing, 

Sighing  for  the  May. 

cc  Ah  1 my  heart  is  pained  with  throbbing, 

Throbbing  for  the  May  — 

Throbbing  for  the  fea-flde  billows, 

And  the  water-wooing  willows  j 
Where  in  laughing  and  in  fobbing 
Glide  the  ftreams  away  : — 

Ah  ! my  heart,  my  heart  is  throbbing, 

Throbbing  for  the  May. 

Waiting  fad,  dejedted,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  May — 

Spring  goes  by  with  wafted  warnings, 

Moon-lit  evenings,  fun-bright  mornings  $ 

Summer  comes,  yet  dark  and  dreary 
Life  ftill  ebbs  away  : — 

Man  is  ever  weary,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  May.” 

Mr.  McCarthy’s  “ Summer  Longings 99  are,  how- 
ever,  by  no  means  confined  to  his  “ Waiting  for  the 
May.”  On  the  contrary,  a yearning  for  the  advent 
of  fpring  and  early  fummer — an  intenfe  appreciation  of 
their  glories,  and  great  felicity  in  telling  of  their  beauty. 


244  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


prevail  throughout  his  poetry.  In  “ Kate  of  Ken- 
mare,”  he  mentions  as  a gift  of  the  poet — 

<£  A fervent  and  dutiful  love  of  the  beautiful.” 

It  is,  indeed,  fuch  a love  that  feems  to  infpire  the 
defcription  of  the  approach  of  Springin  “The  Awaking/’ 
in  which  the  vivifying  influence  of  that  feafon  is  fo 
happily  perfonified  : — 

((  A Lady  came  to  a fnow-white  bier. 

Where  a youth  lay  pale  and  dead  ; 

She  took  the  veil  from  her  widow’d  head, 

And,  bending  low,  in  his  ear  Ihe  faid — 

Awaken  ! for  I am  here. 

f(  She  parted  with  a fmile  to  a wild  wood  near, 

Where  the  boughs  were  barren  and  bare  5 
She  tapped  on  the  bark  with  her  fingers  fair, 

And  called  to  the  leaves  that  were  buried  there — 
Awaken  ! for  I am  here. 

“ The  birds  beheld  her  without  fear 

As  Ihe  walked  through  the  dank-mofled  dells  5 
As  Ihe  breathed  on  their  downy  citadels, 

And  whifpered  the  young  in  their  ivory  Ihells — 
Awaken  ! for  I am  here. 
#####*#* 

u The  pale  grafs  lay  with  its  long  locks  fere 
On  the  breaft  of  the  open  plain  5 
She  loofened  the  matted  hair  of  the  flain, 

And  cried,  as  Ihe  filled  each  juicy  vein — 

Awaken  ! for  I am  here. 

“ The  rufh  rofe  up,  with  its  pointed  fpear  $ 

The  flag,  with  its  falchion  broad  $ 

The  dock  uplifted  its  Ihield  unawed, 

As  her  voice  ran  clear  through  the  quickening  fod — 
Awaken  ! for  I am  here. 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND.  245 

6i  The  red  blood  ran  through  the  clover  near, 

And  the  heath  on  the  hills  o’erhead  $ 

The  daily’s  fingers  were  tipped  with  red, 

As  ihe  ftarted  to  life,  when  the  Lady  faid — 

Awaken  ! for  I am  here. 

Ci  And  the  young  year  rofe  from  his  fnow-white  bier, 

And  the  flowers  from  their  green  retreat  j 
And  they  came  and  knelt  at  the  Lady’s  feet, 

Saying  all,  with  their  mingled  voices  fweet — 

O Lady  ! behold  us  here.” 

The  fine  tafte  which  guides  Mr.  McCarthy  in  the 
treatment  of  his  more  fanciful  fubje&s,  and  prevents 
him  from  becoming  what  the  cant  of  the  day  calls 
Ipafmodic,  is,  to  my  mind,  one  of  his  highefh  excellencies. 
As  in  Tennyfon’s  <f  Talking  Oak,”  the  enduing  of  a 
non-fentient  objedl  with  emotions  and  intelligence  is 
with  mafterly  dexterity  kept  from  ever  becoming 
grotefque,  fo  in  our  poet  the  clover  is  given  red  blood, 
and  the  flax  is  “ fair-haired,  blue-eyed,”  without  dis- 
turbing our  perfect  acquiefcence.  In  one  paflage  the 
flowers  are  even  bidden  to  a bridal  breakfaft,  and  the 
primrofe  comes  adtually  tricked  out  in  a flraw  hat 
without  provoking  more  than  a half-admiring  fmile  at 
the  audacity  of  the  notion  and  the  playful  dexterity 
with  which  it  is  pafled  off : — 

66  All  the  guefts  are  in  their  places — 

Lilies  with  pale,  high-bred  faces  — 

Hawthorns  in  white  wedding  favours, 

Scented  with  celeftial  favours  — 

Daifies,  like  fweet  country  maidens, 

Wear  white  fcalioped  frills  to-day. 

’Neath  her  hat  of  ftraw  the  peal'ant 
Primrofe  fitteth, 

Nor  permitteth 


246  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 

Any  of  her  kindred  prefent, 

’Specially  the  milk-fweet  cowflip, 

E’er  to  leave  the  tranquil  lhade $ 

By  the  hedges 
Or  the  edges 

Of  fome  ftream  or  grafiy  glade, 

They  look  upon  the  fcene  half  willful,  half  afraid.” 

To  appreciate  properly  the  difficulty  of  fuch  an 
achievement  as  this  I would  afk  you  to  recall  for  your- 
felves  fome  of  the  many  inftances  in  which  it  has  been 
clumfily  attempted,  as  in  fuch  a paffiage  as  that  in  which 
Alexander  Smith  fpeaks  of  the  “ Earth’s  great  heart 
and  granite  ribs.” 

I would  place  McCarthy’s  fongs  of  love  and  of 
fummer  above  either  his  political  fongs  or  his  longer 
ballads.  The  political  fongs — for  example,  “ Advance” 
and  “ The  Sword  and  Pen  ” — are  fpirited,  no  doubt, 
but  want,  in  my  opinion,  that  metallic  ring  which 
penetrates  through  ear  and  heart  in  the  belt  ballads  of 
Davis  and  Fergufon,  and  Itirs  the  blood  through  the 
impaffioned  lines  of  that  great  “ Single  fong,”  “ The 
Memory  of  the  Dead.” 

The  longer  ballads  contain  many  palfages  of  great 
beauty,  but  they  have  not  that  intenfity,  that  abforbing 
interell,  that  makes  the  reader  a fharer  in  the  wrongs  of 
Willie  Gilliland  and  charge  in  the  ranks  of  the  exiles  of 
Fontenoy.  His  Itories,  however,  are  always  well  told, 
and  among  their  many  beauties  few  better  examples 
can,  I think,  be  found  than  the  description  of  John 
McDonnell’s  hound  in  “ The  Foray,”  and  the  touching 
and  terrible  pi&ure,  in  the  fourth  canto  of  the  “ Voyage 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND . 


247 

of  St.  Brendan,”  of  the  abduClion  of  Ethna  when  on 
the  eve  of  taking  the  veil. 

Any  analyfis  of  McCarthy’s  poetry — even  fo  imper- 
fect a one  as  the  prefent  mult  necettarily  be — fhould 
not  clofe  without  an  allufion  to  that  llrange  production 
% of  his  earlier  years,  called  “ A Lament.”  The  line 
cc  Sad  is  the  knowledge  that  cometh  with  years,” 
though  occurring  far  on  in  the  poem,  may  be  taken  as 
its  germ.  It  treats  of  a tranfition  incident  to  all — of 
the  time  when 

Youth’s  illuflons 
One  by  one 

Have  palled  like  clouds 
The  fun  Ihone  on.” 

The  gloomy  imprettion  left  by  the  defcription  of 
thofe  days  when  “ hope  had  a meaning  ” is  relieved 
by  the  review  of  the  tales  of  chivalry  and  romance,  of 
knights  and  ladies,  fairy  cattles  and  enchanted  foretts, 
which  rofe  and  faded  before  the  delighted  eyes  of  our 
childhood.  But  the  glimpfe  of  the  pageant  is  not  fuf- 
fered  to  affeCl  the  purpofe  of  the  poem.  Two  ftanzas 
bring  us  back  to  the  key  which  pervades  the  begin- 
ning, and  which  is  here,  as  it  were,  finally  infilled  on 
by  a repetition  of  the  opening  lines  : — 

tc  The  dream  is  over, 

The  vifion  is  flown, 

Dead  leaves  are  lying 
Where  rofes  have  blown — 

Withered  and  ftrewn 
Are  the  hopes  I cherilh’d, 

All  hath  perilh’d 
But  grief  alone.” 


248  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


I before  claimed  for  McCarthy  the  faculty  of  being 
fanciful  without  becoming  fpafmodic.  That  he  can  de- 
lineate a forrovv  not  the  lefs  touching  that  it  is  common 
— not  the  lefs  adtual  that  it  has  its  fource  in  ourfelves, 
and  not  in  external  things,  as  he  has  done  in  the  “ La- 
ment,” fhows  an  equal  fkill  in  fhunning  the  falfe  fenti- 
mentality — the  cheap  Byronifm — which  at  firft  fight 
feems  infeparable  from  fuch  a fubjed. 

If  the  limits  of  a ledure  permitted,  a crowd  of  other 
names  which  merit  a diilind  and  minute  review  would 
Hill  demand  attention.  It  is  indeed  painfully  tan- 
talifing  to  turn  away  from  them — from  the  gifted 
daughters  of  the  houfe  of  Sheridan,  from  the  kindly 
tranflator  of  “ Fauft,”  from  the  melodious  cadences  of 
the  author  of  “ Kate  of  Araglen,”  from  the  whifpered 
name  of  the  writer  of  “ Dear  Land,”  from  the  ringing 
numbers  of  the  bard  of  “ Ninety-eight.”  To  thefe  a 
hoft  of  others  might  be  added — the  ingenious  Lover, 
the  harmonious  Waller,  Lever  and  Maho'ny,  Blacker 
and  Duffy,  Wilfon  and  Starkey — but  I mull  content 
myfelf  with  having  fpoken  in  detail  of  thofe  who,  in 
Homeric  phrafe,  “ overtop  the  reft  by  their  heads  and 
lofty  fhoulders.”  One  other  there  is,  however,  who 
deferves  particular  mention,  and  whom  I mention  with 
the  greater  pleafure,  becaufe,  for  fome  reafon,  juftice  is 
not  done  to  his  talents ; I allude  to  Michael  Jofeph  Barry. 
As  his  chief  powers,  vivid  and  nervous  defcription, 
and  extreme  foftnels,  blended  in  eafy  flowing  verfe,  are 
combined  with  fingular  felicity  in  one  poem  in  parti- 
cular, a few  ftanzas  will  ferve  (for  I can  hope  no 
more)  the  purpofe  of  fuggeftion.  The  lines  are  from 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND.  249 


his  requiem  over  thofe  who  fell  in  the  Crimea,  which 
may  be  found  among  his  “ Lays  of  the  War:” — 

££  We  have  had  our  fong  of  triumph  ! It  has  hardly  died  away — 

Ah  ! the  found  of  fadder  mufic  follows  foon  the  exultant  lay. 

Let  the  fighing  breezes  waft  it  over  land  and  over  wave, 

Where  our  noble  dead  are  fleeping — a Requiem  for  the  Brave! 

££  There  is  grief,  too  deep  for  language — there  is  grief,  too  deep 
for  tears — 

There  is  grief,  that  knows  no  folace  in  the  long,  long,  lapfe  of 
years — 

Grief  that,  in  the  heart’s  dark  chamber,  fiirines  the  dead  with 
pious  care, 

And  whofe  life  is  one  long  vigil  o’er  the  relics  cherifii’d 
there. 

# % % * * * 

££  But  befides  that  fpeechlels  anguifii,  there  is  grief  ferene  and 
high, 

As  the  forrow  of  immortals  over  thofe  who  grandly  die ! 

A grief  that  has  both  voice  and  tears,  yet  rifes  calmly  ftrong, 

And  breathes  a nation’s  fympathies  in  chaunt  of  folemn  fong. 

* * * * * * * 

££  In  her  halls  the  high-born  lady  mufes,  full  of  haughty  grace, 

And  a penfive  fhadow  foftens  the  proud  beauty  of  her  face  ; 

Whither  now  her  thoughts  are  fraying  it  were  eafy  talk 
to  tell, 

Though  we  heard  not  the  half-fpoken  words — £ How  glo- 
rioufly  they  fell ! ’ 

<£  The  young  village  maid  is  fitting  by  her  humble  cottage  door ; 

Ah  ! her  thoughts  are  wandering  likewife  to  that  far  Crimean 
fiiore, 

The  big  tear  is  trickling,  heavily  and  fiowly,  down  her  cheek, 

cMay  God  pity  thofe  who  loved  them  ! * all  the  tribute  file  can 
fpeak. 


250  BALLAD  AND  LYRICAL 


“ The  ftrong  fwarthy  fmith  is  brandiflfing  his  mafiive  hedge 
in  air, 

And  he  flings  it  on  the  anvil,  with  his  brawny  arms  all  bare  5 

And  he  paufes  for  a moment,  and  refumes  his  toil  again, 

With  the  brief  and  pithy  fentence — ‘ Well,  they  did  their  work 
like  men  ! ' 

((  The  old  man,  with  hair  of  hlver,  as  he  gladdens  in  the  glee 

Of  the  golden-headed  grandchild  that  fits  laughing  on  his 
knee — 

Lays  his  hand  upon  the  baby- brow,  and  fays,  withafpedl  grave — 

4 God  grant,  my  little  darling,  you  may  one  day  prove  as  brave.* 

« With  firm  ftep  and  gallant  bearing,  the  brave  boy  hangs  o’er  the 
tale, 

And  his  eye  is  flafliing  haughtily — his  cheek  grows  red  and 
pale — 

And  his  heart  beats  ftrong  and  rapid,  as  he  thinks,  with  thick- 
ening breath, 

He,  too,  could  fling  bright  life  away,  for  fuch  a gallant  death. 

44  Such  the  thoughts  half-uttered  hourly,  throughout  thefe  impe- 
rial ifles — 

Noble  thoughts,  that  fteal  in  fadly,  ’mid  our  wonted  houfehold 
fmiles — 

Telling  more  than  high-flown  fentences,  or  grand  heroic  lay. 

How  we  forrow  for  our  heroes,  who  are  fleeping  far  away.” 

******* 

Such  is  the  ballad  and  lyrical  poetry  of  Ireland  : 
replete  with  fancy  and  eloquence,  tendernefs  and  emo- 
tion, but  fo  far  evincing  no  tendency  to  expand,  at 
leaft  in  the  direction  of  the  higher  forms  of  poetry. 
Yet  it  is  to  be  found  in  every  other  mental  effort  of  the 
race  in  forms  the  moll  alluring.  At  one  time  we  trace 
it  in  the  fine  wit,  the  racy  humour,  and  turns  of  the 
foftefl  fentiment,  in  which  her  numerous  comic  writers 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND . 


251 


abound  ; at  another,  the  fame  qualities  of  fancy,  refine- 
ment, and  tendernefs  aflume  a garb  more  fenfuous,  but 
not  lefs  enchanting,  and  make  their  voices  heard  in  all 
their  wild  and  various  fweetnefs,  as  they  breathe  every 
note  of  pafiion  in  the  unrivalled  melodies  of  our 
country.  But  it  is  in  the  eloquence  of  Ireland  that 
this  ftirring,  fubtle  fpirit  fpreads  all  her  beauties,  and 
rifes  at  laft  to  the  “ bright  confummate  flower.”  This 
it  is  that  fparkles  over  the  pages  of  Curran  and  of  Sheri- 
dan, of  Canning  and  of  Shiel,  the  fame  that  burft  in  a 
flream  of  fire  from  the  holy  lips  of  Grattan,  that 
lighted  the  gloomy  grandeur  of  the  genius  of  Burke, 
and  wras  fuffered  to  hang  its  light  wreaths  at  times 
around  the  maflive  eloquence  of  Plunkett. 

Will  the  genius  of  Ireland  reft  here  ? Are  the  laurels 
fhe  has  won  enough  for  her,  or  is  fhe  now  about  to 
enter  a new  realm  of  fong — one  demanding  more  en- 
during toil  than  fhe  has  known,  but  yielding  alfo  a more 
enduring  fame  ? I would  gladly  open  the  confideration 
of  fo  interefting  a problem,  but  the  time  which  it  is 
permitted  us  to  remain  together  has  more  than  elapfed, 
and  I muft  leave  its  folution  to  other  and  abler  hands. 

I have  but  one  word  more  to  add.  To  any  of  you 
to  whom  fuch  a fpeculation  may  feem  unfuited,  taftelefs, 
or  barren,  I ftill  recommend  the  ftudy  of  thefe  ftrains 
as  pregnant  with  feelings  congenial  to  every  mood  of 
the  human  mind.  It  is  true  that  they  are  but  drops 
in  that  majeftic  tide  to  which  the  poets  of  every  age 
and  clime  fince  man  was  made  are  tributary.  Yet  fo 
various  is  their  tone — fo  verfatile  their  genius — fo  com- 
prehenfive  the  fcope  of  their  fympathy,  that  I do  not 


252 


POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


hefitate  to  advocate  the  perufal  of  them  on  the  fame 
ground  on  which  I would  urge  the  ftudy  of  poetry  at 
large.  I do  not  hefitate  to  fay.  Read  them,  if  the  fweet- 
nefs,  the  grandeur,  the  fimplicity  of  nature,  have  any 
charms  for  you.  Read  them  if  you  would  increafe  that 
inward  treafure  which  unfeen,  and  moll  when  it  is  un- 
feen,  yet  fheds  over  every  thought  and  word  a fpirit  of 
refinement  and  fenfe  of  gentle  power.  If  you  would 
ftudy  the  hiftory  of  your  country  in  its  molt  delightful 
form — if  you  would  live  in  fancy  over  thofe  days  when 
this  ifland  was  the  home  of  fan&ity  and  literature,  and 
the  early  matin  notes  of  her  awaking  mufic  rofe  from 
every  hill  and  valley — if  you  glory  in  what  is  glorious, 
if  you  forrow  over  what  is  fad,  in  her  annals — if  you 
would  found  the  depths  of  the  genius  and  paflions  of 
her  people,  and  cherifh  towards  her  errors  ftill  a juft  tone 
of  charity,  forbearance,  and  mercy,  read  her  ftory  in 
the  records  of  her  poetry.  If  none  of  thefe  motives 
actuates  you,  ftill  you  will  feek  in  vain  to  engage  your 
hours  more  innocently — more  delightfully — more  ele- 
gantly— than  in  gathering — 

(<  Thefe  fcattered  wild  flowers  of  our  native  land — 

Thefe  fimple  pebbles  from  the  Irifh  fea.” 


CHISWICK  PRESS  : PRINTED  BY  WHITTINGHAM  AND  WILKINS, 

TOOKS  COURT,  CHANCERY  LANE. 


Afternoon  lectures 


on  Engl  is. 


Author 

literature;  del. — in  Dll  1)11 

Title 

in  May  & June,  1865, 


iialJ] J2r  - Ho.Xd  v 


laea 


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